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This is copy No. _ 
























Merry Go - Round 


OTHER WORKS 

by 

GEORGES LEWYS 


The Temple of Pallas-Athenae (Posterite) 

Florentine 

Verdun and Ballads 

The Charmed American (Francois , VAmericain) 
Adelina Patti, Her Loves and Letters 
A Woman of Fifty, and Other Poems 
As God in France 




In preparation: 

Yamhill, a novel 

The Bard of Avon 
Mata Hari 


| libretti 



GjJL 




Merry-Go-Round 

(From {Ke Austrian.) 


BY 

GEORGES LEWYS 


Unexpunged and Complete Edition 


Privately Printed for Subscribers Onb? 





Copyright 1923 
By Georges Lewys 

Entered in Stationers’ Hall, London. 

All Rights Reserved for translation into foreign 
languages, including the Scandinavian. 


< 


I C 


Printed in the United States of America 



©C1A760043 


To my friend, Erich von Stroheim, 
who was the inspiration of this work, 





“Das Leben ist ein Ring elspiel, da wird oft manchem 
bang , 

Dem einen ist zu kurz die Tour, dent anderen zu 
long” 

(“Life is a merry-go-round—of joys, of tears, of song 9 
To one the trip is oft too short, another one too 
long. 99 ) 

























PREFATORY NOTE 


Readers of MERRY-GO-ROUND should bear in 
mind that the story is of a continental (European) 
flavour and portrays the life and manners of the city 
of Vienna prior to and since the war. . . . It is not 

necessary to blush for the truth nor to apologise for 
realism; the book must be accepted for what it is 
worth: not the triumph or failure of virtue or vice, but 
the frank weighing of values in the scale of social de¬ 
pravity and regeneration. . . . Caution is merely 

made against any attempt to approach incidents in the 
story from a too-sensitive (American) viewpoint. . . . 

The Author wishes to acknowledge thanks to Mr. 
Erich von Stroheim for invaluable suggestions at all 
times; to Captain Albert Conti for technical help in 
describing the retreat at Rawaruska, etc.; and to Count 
Mario Caracciolo for the Venetian scenes and Italian 
conditions of internment during the war. . . . 

Attention is called to the fact that the Radetzky 
statue, which is the outstanding feature to the Viennese 
of their late martial spirit, was removed from the 
Platz Am Hof in 1912 to a position before the K. u. 
K. Artillerie Arsenal off the Wiedener Giirtel in the 
10th District of Vienna—“Favoriten.” . . . Not 

wishing to dissociate the old memorial from the life 
in the inner city, where it was so long renowned and rec¬ 
ognized, liberty was taken to leave it on the Am Hof 
after 1912, through war and succeeding peace. . . . 














Merry-Go-Round 








































Vienna . . . old . . . gray. . . historical. . . . 

The town of joy ... of gladness . .. and of mirth. . . . 
of sordid sorrow . . . and of grief . . . 
of song... of wine ... of heart affairs .... 
of sentimental tears . . . and heedless prankish laugh¬ 
ter .... 

of mediaeval pomp . . . and martial spirit. . .. 

• . . the town of dukes ... of princes .. . and of counts 
.. . and beggars .... 

of women sweet and pure . . . and harlots. . . . 


Vienna with a code of morals all its own .. . . 
bravely idling away the hours .... 
to the strains of Strauss and Lehar .... 
not knowing of tomorrow. 





































TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Page 

I Franciscus Erasmus Otto Adalbert von der Hohenegg 1 

II Franzl. 6 

III Morning Following Night. 16 

IV Gisella . 27 

V The Footwashing. 36 

VI The Prater. 44 

VII Night Following Morning. 53 

VIII The Fat Lady. 64 

IX The Light Goes Out. 70 

X Madame Elvira. 78 

XI Huber Collects His Greatest Crowd. 85 

XII Two Months Later. 92 

XIII A Tragedy In The Danube. 97 

XIV Jock The Lady-Killer. 104 

XV Violin and Bow. 112 

XVI “Out There In The Blossoming Garden”. 121 

XVII Serajevo . 130 

XVIII The Merry-Go-Round Goes ’Round. 136 

XIX An Emperor Is Also In Sorrow. 145 

XX Boniface. 154 

XXI Man Is An Imitative Creature. 163 

XXII “When Love Dies”. 171 

XXIII Lilac. 179 

XXIV After The Ball. 188 

XXV Punch And Judy. 194 

XXVI The Rutschbahn . 206 

XXVII The Four Musketeers Of The Court. 216 

XXVIII The Gleaners. 224 

XXIX All-Souls’ Day. 232 

XXX Regarding The Progress Of A Falling Body. 240 

XXXI Dragoons! . 251 

XXXII The Iron Hand. 259 

XXXIII “15.. 29.. 61.”. 268 

XXXIV Nicki, Rudi And Eitel. 277 

XXXV Profiteers! . 285 

XXXVI All The World Was Cold. 292 

XXXVII Franz Meier. 300 

XXXVIII The Supreme Sacrifice. 311 






















































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I 


FRANCISCUS ERASMUS OTTO ADALBERT VON DER 
HOHENEGG 

In the year 1280 a castle was lodged on the upper 
reaches of the Danube River. It was at Pochlarn, 
above Vienna, in the Ost-Mark, which was the original 
name of Austria, that later, by the addition of Hun¬ 
gary, Bohemia, Tyrol and other vassal states, became 
the great empire of Austria-Hungary. . . . 

This castle was the stronghold of a robber-knight. 

He would pillage, storm and burn the countryside, 
being a man of about fifty years who had spent his life 
in wars. When the wars ended over that period the 
Count von der Hohenegg, who was this robber, made a 
fortress out of his chateau, posting men-at-arms at the 
loop-holes, watching the highroad for travelers and 
falling upon these. . . . He murdered as many as 

he robbed. And those whom he robbed were glad to 
fly for their lives before the insolent band of highway¬ 
men, outlaws by profession, outragers of human de¬ 
cency and despoilers of women I 

Count von der Hohenegg had a liking for beautiful 
women and for strong ale. He robbed the abbeys and 
took the casks of wine. He stopped the trains and de¬ 
manded toll from wayfarers who journeyed down the 
shore of the Danube from the provinces into Vienna, 
then, as now, the most important commercial city of 
central Europe. . . . The Danube was ordinarily 

placid, but before his castle raged into a whirlpool of 
green water! This was just the place for a robber- 
baron, one of the type with which Germany and Aus¬ 
tria were infested during the lawless period. 

1 


2 


Merry-Go-Round 


Count von der Hohenegg was a man of gigantic 
stature. His hair upstood like a ruff on his head, coal- 
black, but white at the roots, like his beard, which was 
also profuse. His cheeks were flaming red—in patches 
purple when his passions were roused and the conquest 
of his men brought booty and an occasional high bishop 
into his clutches, when he tortured him, bringing down 
the whole condemnation of the church on his head, but 
in no way interfering with his toll or his licentious dis¬ 
position. He then took the bishop and defrocked him, 
made him perform antics, such as running about on all 
fours as his retainers stuck him in the hinder portion 
of his anatomy with spears, or walled him up alive in 
a cask or hanged him to the nearest tree! . . . 

Count von der Hohenegg was a sworn enemy of the 
church. The peasants, who cultivated their crops on 
the table-lands of the Danube, rejoiced at this. They 
were much oppressed by the bishops and the clergy. 
They had to pay high rents for their lands which were 
held by the abbots, and besides this the clergy forbade 
any learning among the lower classes, preferring to 
keep the people in ignorance and superstition. Other¬ 
wise they might have risen against the church. So they 
filled the peasants with stories of witchcraft and ghost 
lore and exacted heavy penances for the slightest fault 
or fall from grace. . . . Even the emperor was ex¬ 

communicated for daring to question the power of the 
pope in Rome. So when the feudal barons caught a 
churchman and defrocked him, the peasants crossed 
themselves with the right hand, thanking God, and 
with the other shook their curses at the robber-baron 
who despoiled their crops. 

In the winter when the Danube carried floating ice, 
they told about the exploits of the robber-barons in 
spring. They knew the name of Franciscus Erasmus 
Otto Adalbert, who was the Count von der Hohenegg, 
and the best fortified outlaw in the land. His castle 


Francis cus 


3 


had high turrets that were walled in by great trees 
covered with snow, and when the snow melted and the 
spring came it was equally invisible because it was made 
of black stone as dismal as the forest that grew up 
about it. . . , 

In this forest some of the most terrible crimes were 
committed. The highroad skirted the forest. A cara¬ 
van of horses and a stage-coach could proceed down 
this highway and be seen by the watchers in the castle. 
But the stronghold was never visible below. Thus, 
when such a cavalcade, starting from Passau with the 
first sign of open weather, followed the beautiful blue 
Danube to the heights at Pochlarn and then dropped 
into the forest, the watchers in the castle were roused 
by the sound of hoofs. They sprang to the loop-holes. 
They saw a body of horsemen, eight in number, gallop¬ 
ing at a good pace—which would take them in the 
shortest time through this dismal region — toward 
Vienna, and surrounding a stage-coach in which rode 
two passengers, a woman and a man. . . . 

Without waiting for further preparation, the 
watchers sprang below. They grasped battle-axes and 
swords and swung open the castle’s gates! 

Franciscus, himself an antelope, led the descent over 
boulders and crags into the heart of the woods before 
the approaching riders. His cheeks were flaming, the 
great scar girdling his cheek from the ear to the nose, 
won through a war in the Crusades, rose like a welt 
from a flail ... his hair stood upright from his 
brow ... he carried his sword, unsheathed, in his 
hand for this first sally after the winter. . . . His 

feet were so well shod no living thing could have heard 
him step. And the men-at-arms, as silent and ruthless 
as he, surrounded the stage-coach and its armed guards 
as they travelled along the highway. . . . 

A cry pealed out upon the river front! The stage 
came to a halt. And now the guards, ridden far in 


4 


M erry-Go-R ound 


front, turned and wheeled, to see themselves en¬ 
gaged on every hand! Armed outlaws sprang from 
behind the trees, rose from the bushes, struck 
them—the babel resounded through the forest depths! 
The horsemen were cut down, their mounts run 
through! 

Franciscus von der Hohenegg, himself engaged with 
the leading horseman, after mastering him threw him¬ 
self upon the stage-coach which the driver was whip¬ 
ping up, preparatory to making a dash down the road 
with his luckless passengers. . . . 

But the bandit chief prevented this. He slashed the 
nearest horse down by hamstringing its legs, and the 
other three, heading for the river, turned the stage¬ 
coach so far about that it toppled over on its side, 
crashing to the ground, and was dragged, scraping and 
bumping, with its passengers for a distance of sixty 
feet! Here it was dashed against the trees . . . 

the axles broken, the horses flew into the distance, dis¬ 
lodged from the shafts! Everywhere was horror and 
confusion! . . . 

Underneath the coach, the driver and two occupants 
were unable to stir. The driver was dead. His skull 
had been opened by a blow from the shafts as the car¬ 
riage turned over. 

The woman lay, breathing faintly. Her companion, 
semi-conscious, clasped her about the waist as if he 
wanted to protect her even in his helplessness from the 
furious bandit chieftain. . . . Her veil still covered 

her face and kept her identity secret and a heavy cloak 
was hung about her in such a way that she was almost 
totally out of sight. . . . But Franciscus found her 

all the same, lifting the coach with all his strength— 
which was strength enough to fell an ox!—and causing 
it to fall to one side, thereby dislodging the driver, 
who rolled over, exposing his head broken* open and 
the mass of his face pressed into a jelly. ... It was 


Franciscus 


5 


a terrible sight! The victims hid their eyes but were 
too frightened to let out a murmur. 

Franciscus pounced upon the woman and tore her 
from her protector’s side! He even lifted his sword 
and struck off the hand of the man and then ran him 
through in so cruel a manner as to curdle the blood of 
his own retainers, who were rifling the coach and used 
to sights of rape and carnage. He caught the woman 
up and started to mount with her through a hidden 
track that led, by skirting to the right and raising forty 
or fifty paces, into the rear of the Castle Hohenegg. 
. . . He alone knew of this path—with his retainers. 

A stranger could never have found it. 

Between the trunks of enormous beech-trees and 
maples and pines, that brushed his face with their resin¬ 
ous branches, the robber-baron flew with the dazed 
woman, who now recovered herself and started to beat 
him with her fists, letting out short, miserable cries of 
fright. . . . 

All the way to the castle she fought him. Her veil 
was pulled from her face, disclosing a milk-white, re¬ 
fined, beautiful countenance that belonged to a woman 
of quality ... a noblewoman, of the finest classes 
. . . in spite of which and the power with which she 
beat him, he deliberately bent back her head until it lay 
in the crotch of his elbow, gave her a searching look 
and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her cruelly! . . . 

The whirlpool sang in the Danube . . . torches 

fluttered through the eerie night . . . from the east¬ 

ern spur of the Alps Mountains came an odour of vio¬ 
lets. . . . 

He lifted her, half insensible, and took her into his 
caitle! 


II 


FRANZL 

In modern Vienna is a cafe, among scores, located 
on the principal thoroughfare, the Ringstrasse 1 , gird¬ 
ling the city proper, dividing the old Vienna of the time 
of the Crusades and of the Emperer Otho and the 
Saracens, from the new portion embracing practically 
twenty-one districts. 

This Ringstrasse was created out of the fortifica¬ 
tions which ran in circular fashion completely around 
the ancient city. 

Vienna is a city of life and gaiety. The Ringstrasse 
Cafe is only one of the sources of her inspiration by 
night. 

In the Ringstrasse Cafe one evening in April of the 
year 1914 sat six people at a special table. They were 
all in civilian dress, still the close-clipped and careful 
tonsorial arrangement of the heads of the three male 
guests proved beyond the question to a knowing ob¬ 
server that they were Austrian officers, men in the serv¬ 
ice of the Emperor Franz-Josef, either doing duty 
at his court or in his armies in time of peace—like 
now. 

Franzl is the first of these. He is very tall, slim, 
corseted, correct in masculine dress, even dandified. 
His face has regular features of Teutonic origin. His 
shoulders are powerful and square. His moustache is 
pomaded and has a slight upward tilt at the ends as if 
kept in binding for hours at a time in preparation for 
his midnight carousals and feminine conquests. 

Rudi, the second, parts his hair in the middle—what 
there is of it. He also wears the cavalry cut. His 


Mining Street. 


6 



Franzl 


7 


cars are very protrusive, sticking out from his head, 
but not in an ugly manner. Rudi is silly and has a 
foolish expression as if he were always saying to him¬ 
self : “This is a great life. It was made for fools like 
me. It doesn’t do to be too clever and realise any¬ 
thing!” . . . And he didn’t realise anything, either. 
For instance, he believed in the upper classes and never 
realised there might be lower ones and that these might 
some day throw over the old regime. He realised there 
might be war and he would have to go and put his full- 
dress uniform in the moth-closet, but his mind never 
travelled to the actual consequences of a declaration, 
battle, death, immortality perhaps! . . . He never 

thought at all, except of ladies, horses, cards and wine, 
and then only in the most drivelling way. The fact is, 
Rudi was a typical cavalry officer, which meant in Aus¬ 
tria serving the emperor with the seat of the trousers 
but seldom with the brains of a student or in a commer¬ 
cial way. He belonged to the regiment of the Uhlans, 
one of the three kinds of Austrian cavalry. . . . 

His closest friend was Nicki von Uebermut, sitting 
next to him with a lady in between. It was his lady, 
but she was now talking to Franzl. She always talked 
to Franzl. This was very annoying to Rudi, who, 
nevertheless, was a perfectly good friend to Franzl and 
wished him to have as many ladies as he could comfort¬ 
ably entertain at all hours, which is the true test of 
friendship. 

Nicki came from Hungary—the Petch district. Of 
the three officers he alone, in his own eyes, understood 
the mounts they rode at parade. The Petch is a great 
horse-breeding district in Hungary and all the most 
barbarous, untamed horses come from here, as well as 
men of the same nature. Nicki, therefore, was a won¬ 
derful horseman, he had a wild and untutored disposi¬ 
tion and he had a great deal of money. Of the last he 
was very careless. A man who has fabulously large 


8 


Merry-Go-Round 


estates and belongs to the Uebermut family—Nicklaz 
Piszta der Uebermut—can afford this attitude . . . 

who else can? 

Nicki was now wrinkling his brows, making them 
correspond to the very natural wave of his hair, close 
to kinky, in trying to remember the name of a girl 
he met once who sang in a cabaret and had olive skin 
and light blond hair. 

Rudi named over every girl of his acquaint¬ 
ance. Nicki discarded them all with a wave of his 
hand. 

“This lady, she drank wine mixed with lemonade 
and always said it reminded her of a drink in Russia,” 
he said. 

“Elvira,” said Franzl at once, not taking his eyes 
off the girl he was listening to, Mitzerl. 

“No, no,” said Rudi disgustedly. 

“She danced in a cabaret.” 

“When?” 

“When she first came here.” 

“How long ago?” 

“Seven... eight... ten years,” said Franzl. 

“Where’d she come from?” 

“Russia. The Yamskaya Sloboda.” 

“You don’t say!” exclaimed Nicki, lifting his eye¬ 
brows. “This is news to me. You say Elvira came 
from—the Yamkas?” 

“Sure, she was a- Well, you know the kind of a 

life the ladies lead there. . . .” 

“Better not say it,” warned Rudi, eyeing the girls, 
Mitzerl and Fanny and Gretel. “We are not alone.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Gretel, lighting a Turk¬ 
ish cigarette. “She came from a five-rouble house, but 
—what of it?” 

Nicki looked at Franzl. 

“Let’s have some—wine,” he said, suppressing a 
smile, “with lemonade.” 



Franzl 


9 


So the wine was ordered, and Mitzerl commenced to 
talk to Franzl again in her lively manner. 

She was a little milliner from the Karntnerstrasse. 
She wore a high collar in the back of her dress, which 
was low in front, long black gloves, a flat hat that sat 
up high on her head behind. Her features were very 
pretty, and Rudi had met her by special appointment 
after having seen her walking on the Karntnerstrasse 
with Fanny one sunny afternoon. He was seated at 
the time in the Cafe Scheidel all by himself, looking 
out of the window at the opera house, and the vision 
of her face was so strong that he presented himself by 
boldly looking into her eyes from the window, going 
outside and following her immediately. . . . 

This forwardness, far from shocking her, had the 
opposite effect. Rudi was in uniform. As a dashing 
young captain with shining buttons, two medals on his 
chest and a long thin cigarette-holder between his 
highly-glossed finger-nails, he was irresistible. Conse¬ 
quently she met him, they became attracted to each 
other and frequently went out. 

Fanny was rather stout and had blond hair. She 
liked to wear big ruches and, underneath, vests in her 
suits like a man. She had also a feather in her hat and 
was a milliner. She said very little because she lisped 
and always preferred to have Mitzerl do the talking, 
which she did. 

She was still engaged with Franzl until Gretel leaned 
over and grasped him by the arm. 

“My dear sweetheart,” she said in a low voice, “you 
are making yourself conspicuous talking to Mitzie all 
the time. You two have so much to talk about. Better 
make an engagement and go out special.” . . . 

“Nothing of the kind!” exclaimed Mitzie. “We 
haven’t seen each other in some time. Let us alone.” 

“You have Rudi to talk to.” 

“You talk to him,” said Mitzie flippantly. 


10 


M erry-Go-Round 


Rudi had nothing to talk about. Thinking very sel¬ 
dom, he only waited until somebody had something to 
say to him and then he responded with a burst of 
laughter, or nothing. 

Now the waiter came over and supplied them all 
with fresh glasses. The music was going on, the cafe 
was filled with people. They ate a little something— 
caviar sandwiches and Wiener Schnitten. The time 
was rapidly approaching midnight and then going 
on. . . . 

Franzl leaned his elbows on the table, striving to 
talk to all the girls at once. In this he partly succeeded 
because he was the handsomest of the three young men, 
gifted with fine personal grace, rows of even white 
teeth and a natural sunny disposition. He had always 
more conversation offered him than he could well 
digest. The two girls would each have been glad to 
exchange him for their own sweethearts, but in this 
act they were forestalled by Gretel, who had been, up 
to the time she met Franzl, the toast of the town. She 
was an actress, formerly of the comic opera, who now 
contented herself with an easy life. By leading an ex¬ 
istence only at night and sleeping most of the day, she 
managed to look very young although she was over 
thirty. 

Franzl patted her hand, kept his eyes on Mitzerl 
and touched Fanny’s knee under the table with his own. 
The wine was mounting to his head. He could feel 
himself getting very dizzy and animated, but it was a 
pleasurable sensation and he allowed it to increase. 
He had left off drinking any lemonade and the cham¬ 
pagne was poured out now for the eighth time, always 
into his glass and Nicki’s, but only every other time 
into the balance of the six. 

“Tell me, do I look drunk?” he said to Mitzerl. 
“If I do it is because I look at you and not from the 
wine in my glass.” 


Franzl 


11 


“Of course it’s not the wine in your glass, silly,” 
she retorted; “it’s what’s in your head!” 

“Very true, but what do you know what’s in my 
head?” 

“Isn’t it what’s in mine?” 

“Is it?” 

This senseless conversation could only originate 
from the environment. It springs into the mind with 
a snap every time the mouth is opened when the senses 
are so dull they can only fall back on repetition and 
maudlin sentiment, or an excursion into the risque. 

Nicki was silent, but his eyes glistened. Rudi was 
breaking matches from the match-container into little 
pieces for no purpose whatever. 

So the conversation went on. 

“If you know what’s in my head, supposing we put 
our heads together?” 

“What for?” asked Mitzerl. 

“I’ll tell you,” said Franzl elaborately. “I’ve got a 
great idea. Tomorrow is Green Thursday, no? Well, 
there will be a ceremony at the Burg 1 -” 

Nicki leaned close to him. 

“Shut up,” he said politely. 

“Wait, don’t disturb me,” Franzl waved a hand at 
him, “you don’t know what I want to say. Tomorrow 
is Green Thursday, and the Fusswashung 2 takes place 
at the palace. The emperor washes old men’s feet. 
It’s a pious act. Now, what is to prevent that we go 
somewhere, eh, Nicki, eh, Rudi, and we perform the 
same act, only it’s not quite so pious?” . . . He 

winked an eye. 

“What do you mean?” said Nicki. 

“We treat ourselves to the grace of God and the 
girls are the penitents.” 

1 eraperor’s palace. 

2 footwashing, a ceremony performed on Green or Holy Thursday, 
the day preceding Good Friday. 




12 


Merry-Go-Round 


“You mean, we wash their feet?” 

“What’s to prevent?” 

The girls, Fanny and Mitzerl, commenced to giggle. 

“Now come, girls,” said Franzl, “don’t giggle. It’s 
a pious act and must be done with the proper spirit.” 

“Proper spirit, by all means!” roared Nicki; “don’t 
you see the joke: we are full of spirit, are we not, 
Rudi? . . .” 

Rudi burst out laughing. 

“Come, be quiet,” said Gretel. “Let us consider the 
footwashing. What do you say to a champagne bath?” 

“All the way in?” 

“Sure.” 

“Who’ll do it?” 

“Not I!” said Mitzerl. 

“Not I!” said Fanny. 

“You’ll do it, Gretel,” said Franzl. “I’ll order the 
champagne.” 

“Of course, I’ll do it, but not here. I object to a 
bath in public. Now, what do you say to tomorrow 
night, at Elvira’s?” 

“Elvira’s! the very thing! Shall we meet at El¬ 
vira’s? Well, now, Rudi, you have a good friend in 
Madame Elvira, you tell her to invite the war minister 
to see Gretel take a bath. . . .” 

Rudi burst out laughing. 

“Come, what time is it? It is after half past two. 
The evening has been slow. Don’t laugh. We are 
half drunk. Call the waiter and get me some cham¬ 
pagne. I am dry as dust. . . .” 

What Franzl meant by the evening being slow 
amounted to this: he was accustomed to much gaiety. 
He was something of a cad. He was perfectly willing 
to have a good time with either of these girls—if the 
other two and their escorts had not been present. He 
could not kiss Mitzerl before Gretel. He could not toy 
with Fanny in front of Nicki. Nicki was a fiery officer. 


Franzl 


13 


. . . If he—Franzl—were alone, he would have 
pranced up to the home of any one of the three girls, 
or a score more he knew in Vienna, as is the way with 
young men sowing their wild oats, and have gotten a 
souvenir when the evening was over from any one of 
the ladies of his acquaintance. Only his brother 
officers would never have seen these souvenirs. They 
belonged in a private drawer he had at home. It 
was crammed with just such presents: garters from 
some, long, beautiful stockings from others, used 
by Franzl as book-markers, fans, purses with little 
gold curls of hair tucked inside, gloves of blue, 
pink and white, stained with the remains of illicit 
feasts 

Or is it illicit, if both parties consent to be bored 
or stimulated by each other’s company? 

Franzl was getting very badly bored. Drunk as he 
was, he longed for action: a kiss from somebody . . . 
and was sorely tempted to lean across the table and 
take a try at Mitzerl’s red and pouting lips. But this 
is not done in Vienna cafes. However debauched 
young men may be, they never get beyond pressing 
their lady’s foot gently with their own under the table, 
or clasping hands beneath the apron of the board that 
holds their mutual glasses of wine. . . . He could 

have engaged a private dining-room, but this is seldom 
done except for a tete-a-tete, and he had always his 
companions to consider. 

Therefore, as he could not kiss anyone, he made up 
his mind this was one of the last parties he cared to 
engage in any more where his friends were present 
and in a public restaurant . . . and he managed 

to put a word into Mitzerl’s ear on the sly about 
a private engagement which caused her to giggle 
outright. 

The word was: “Some day you will have to give me 
a souvenir.” 


14 


Merry-Go-Round 


The first time he saw Gretel he said the same thing 
to her, and he had taken enough of her clothing from 
time to time to furnish up a wardrobe in his own house! 

Now she, catching the word from Mitzerl’s ear and 
being accustomed to the sound of it, which always con¬ 
cluded a party with her lover, said calmly and with 
that diplomatic finesse which had kept her the toast of 
Vienna for ten years among innumerable admirers 
whom she held to her when their affections strayed,— 
as Franzl’s did at this moment,—and maybe she wished 
to give Mitzie a little lesson at the same time on the 
possession which is" nine-tenths of the law among love- 
affairs as it is in business: 

“If you are looking for something to place your 
cigars in on your desk, for instance, or your dressing- 
table, here it is, my dear sweetheart.” 

Gretel took off her shoe. 

“Take this from me... and if your friends want to 
drink champagne out of it, that would also be useful.” 

She handed him her little gold slipper, which he 
placed upon the table before him with envious looks 
from Rudi and Nicki; and he clasped her hand doubly 
tight in his own, as if to assure her she always under¬ 
stood and she was his best sweetheart after all. . . . 

Then he tried to stand on the table and toppled off, 
gave Nicki a blow with his fist as if he were trying to 
feint him, and stumbled away to advise with the Ober- 
kellner 1 about a suitable good-night cup. 

It was three A. M. 

When he returned the girls had fallen into one an¬ 
other’s arms. The cafe was empty. Nicki had lit a 
big black cigar.... 

“Come, let us go home. I have a clear head, and to¬ 
morrow is the Fusswashung. )y 

They all rose—tipsily. 


*head waiter. 



Franzl 


u Fusswashung? It’s the bathing party!” 

Nicki. “Rudi is going to arrange it.” 

“You will not forget, Rudi?” said Franzl. 
Rudi burst out laughing. . . . 


Ill 


MORNING FOLLOWING NIGHT 

Franzl took his Fiaker 1 , one that was unnumbered, to 
see his lady home; then he drove silently about the city 
— as his own address was on the other side — and 
passed the Capuchin Church, which, in company with 
Stephansthurm 2 and the Votive Church, was chiming 
the morning hour of four. The “Iron Man” on the 
top of the steeple of the new city hall was just becoming 
visible in the early light of dawn, and he passed the 
Volksgarten 3 , absolutely deserted. The street lamps 
burned brightly, however. 

If it had been the afternoon instead of the morning 
hour of four, when all fashionable Vienna is on wheels, 
he would have passed Radetzky and saluted the old 
bronze warrior on his horse before the Am Hof 4 . 
Then he would have gone out the Praterstrasse into 
the great playground of Vienna, which is thousands of 
acres converted into drives and pleasure parks, called 
the Prater. . . . Friends would have recognized 

him on the corso and he might have bowed to right 
and left, seeing the fashionable livery of this or that 
high personage of the Austrian court. 

Principally Franzl would have bowed to a canary- 
coloured livery that sped along like the wind on the 
Hauptallee or main course every afternoon. It be¬ 
longed to the Princess Metternich. She was to Vienna 
what Empress Eugenie was to the French in her declin¬ 
ing years—an historic figure, a fixture, as she was 
reaching her eightieth year and had driven thus, to and 

’hired carriage. 

*the tower of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, Vienna’s greatest landmark. 

’people’s park, across from the palace. 

4 Platz Am Hof, the largest street square in Vienna proper. 

16 



Morning Following Night 


17 


fro, for more than half a century, and all this time, 
having a fixed position at court, leading a lively life 
and having admirers and love affairs by the score. . . . 

But Franzl, had it been the afternoon, would not 
have been in a Fiaker, a hired carriage, without number 
and identification, because the young man had his own 
livery, splendid horses and a carriage in which he rode 
in full uniform, fully identified, curling his waxed mous¬ 
tache. At this time he would be addressed as “Your 
Excellency,” and his title would be Franz Maxmillian, 
Count von Hohenegg, descended from thirty-one gen¬ 
erations of von der Hoheneggs, and now a captain of 
the Imperial and Royal Dragoons and His Majesty, 
the Emperor Franz-Josef’s Wing-Adjutant and Cham¬ 
berlain ! 

These honours sat lightly upon the young man’s 
shoulders because he was born to them. He inherited 
them with his house and the upkeep for the house and 
the servants. He had fourteen servants and all of 
thirty-two rooms, and was quite alone in the world be¬ 
cause his parents had deserted him and gone into the 
other world when he was just sixteen, one quickly after 
the other. . . . 

The Palais Hohenegg stood on Auerspergstrasse. 
Franzl, half-stupefied and wholly permitted to be so, 
since he had no tie in the world to reprove him except 
one, and that did not matter! came to the door of his 
house, No. 10, along with the morning, and dismounted 
and dismissed his cabby unsteadily. He rang for his 
portier and was let in. He walked through the court¬ 
yard and up the marble steps to the mosaic floor, be¬ 
tween the plate-glass doors into a fabulously ornate in¬ 
terior of a house! Indeed, it looked like a royal abode 
because the halls were on a massive scale, the furniture 
was plush-covered and extremely fine, and statues and 
ornaments were standing about on every shelf. 

So he mounted the grand staircase of white Carrara 


18 


Merry-Go-Round 


marble, flanked on each side by crenellations and deco¬ 
rations, and crests and coats-of-arms wherever his eyes 
turned—only now he had all he could do to look 
straight ahead—and then came to his own room, the 
first of a half dozen rooms allocated to himself,— 
studies, bedroom, dressing-rooms and bath. . . . 

This whole way he was arguing with himself for 
having left, at the Cafe Ringstrasse, Gretel’s little gold 
slipper on the table. Hunt as he would all his pockets 
through, there was no sign of a souvenir. 

“Distinctly, I remember this,” he said to himself. 
“I put that little slipper in my pocket.” And he made 
another search—lo and behold! it was in his coat- 
pocket, and he had looked for it there twenty times. 

In the bedroom a sleek dog, lying on the hearth¬ 
rug, sprang up as he entered. 

“Down, Spitzbub 1 !” 

The dog frisked about him, and bent himself down 
on his front paws and yawned. 

Franzl stepped out of his overcoat, shirt, pants and 
underclothes, throwing the garments in all directions, 
until he stood in his skin. Then he put on his fine silk 
night-shirt that lay on the bed. 

If he had only four hours to sleep—as the ceremony 
of the footwashing commenced at ten o’clock and it 
took him two hours to dress in the morning, (he un¬ 
dressed in as many minutes at night,)—he was entitled 
to make as much of the four hours as he could. Be¬ 
fore leaping into the sheets, however, he took the slip¬ 
per of Gretel and put it on his dresser, patting it af¬ 
fectionately. He even deposited a kiss on the inside of 
the slipper, swaying back and forth, and then—dropped 
it! . . . What happened further he never knew. 

For he slept from that moment, oblivious, forgetting 
everything, as if he hadn’t slipped on the Kerman- 


1 rascal, rogue. 



Morning Following Night 


19 


shah rug and brought up headlong trying to get to his 
bed! . . . 

The sleep of a man who has been drinking is always 
heavy, his mouth is dry, his brow is moist. The valet 
who wakes him in the morning is bound to have a hard 
time of it, and this often fell to the lot of the Count 
von Hohenegg’s man, Nepomuck Navratil. 

The Bursche 1 was the single house servant in the 
uniform of the army, his master’s valet. But there 
was also a civilian valet, an Englishman who spoke 
German very incorrectly, but knew how to be a valet 
better than any Teuton in the world. However, 
Nepomuck took the stand of a superior to Martin, the 
civilian valet, because the uniform comes first in Aus¬ 
tria, and, though without education, the man who wears 
it is the favourite of the house and can kick and cuff as 
much as he likes. 

When Franzl gave his man, Nepomuck, from the 
provinces, a blow, and then followed this up with a 
piece of money in order to save his feelings, Nepo¬ 
muck gave the civilian, Martin, a blow, but he did not 
give him any money, so the effect was simply that of 
arrogance, and did not have anything to do with the 
feelings. Still he was too superior, and if it had not 
been for his master’s affection many times he would 
have gone too far. 

The portier downstairs was just opening the house 
doors, in full uniform for the holiday, when the first 
sign of life—the lamp-extinguisher—passed down the 
street. This man put out the street-lamps by turning 
them individually with an instrument he carried. And 
after him came the waterman and the assistant water¬ 
man, who carried the hose at the back of the cart and 
sprinkled the street by throwing the water to both sides 
as well as he could. 


*a soldier’s servant 



20 


Merry-Go-Round 


This was a very old-fashioned method, but it be¬ 
longed to the life of Vienna as much as the Radetzky 
statue or the Danube maids in the fountain before the 
Belvedere 1 , or the Stock im Eisen. 2 . . . 

One of the maids of the Palais Hohenegg was put¬ 
ting her head out of an upper window to shake out 
the feather-duster she carried, when the watermen 
passed .... she waved it at them. At once the 
assistant craned his neck to get a view of her and 
turned the water from the hose upon himself! Then 
she laughed heartily and closed the window. 

The next to arrive was a wine delivery wagon—the 
square blue wagon on high wheels of Franz Stibitz. 
On the sides were inscribed the words: “Zum Griinen 
Kamel,” meaning the sign of the “Green Camel.” 
Stibitz was the imperial and royal court purveyor and 
supplied all the wines and liquors to Franzl. . . . 
After him came the butcher’s apprentice—prompt on 
the dot of seven, carrying the meat supply of the house¬ 
hold, beef and loins of pork. . . . 

“Go on, you dirty rascal!” said the portier good- 
naturedly, sticking him in the stomach with his staff: 
“such a disgrace, nun, with what an apron you come 
here.” He dusted himself off with the back of his 
hand. . . . “Go inside,” he remarked to Stibitz’s 

delivery man who carried gold-sealed bottles in two 
baskets. . . . 

The butcher’s apprentice, as fat as he was high, com¬ 
menced to wiggle his fingers from his nose, 

“Aaaaah,” said he, making the long sound. 
u Pfui ,” said the portier. 

palace given to Prince Eugene, famous Austrian general of early 
eighteenth century. Later the residence of murdered archduke, 
Franz Ferdinand. 

J a tree-stump in the Graben, one of the principal business streets of 
Vienna. This stump is preserved as a souvenir from 1575 and 
once marked the extremity of the Wiener Wald. It is covered by 
nails driven in by journeymen-apprentices. 



Morning Following Night 


21 


“Tassel hat!” referring to the portier* s tasseled hat. 

“Schwein!” 

The apprentice continued to dance about with his 
fat legs. Then came the Schusterhub 1 , carrying a pair 
of the Count von Hohenegg’s boots, highly glossed, 
over his shoulder. . . . 

“What do you want?” 

“His excellency’s riding boots,” he retorted, and 
commenced also to tease the portier. 

“Enough! go inside! get after your business and see 
that you get through.” . . . 

But before going, the little Schusterhub, who had bare 
legs with slippers on the feet, stuck his face into the 
butcher’s basket and carried himself indoors, holding 
his nose smartly as if he smelled nauseating odours. 

The portier had hardly got rid of him and the ap¬ 
prentice before a district messenger boy stood in front 
of No. 10 with a long, square box in his hand, the 
name “Fossati” written in black letters on the cover. 

This was an old man with a gray beard—the typical 
messenger and only kind of “boy” that can qualify for 
the job in Vienna. He handed the portier the box, 
who rang for a servant; the count’s man, Martin, an¬ 
swered the call and took the box from “Fossati.” 

“Fossati” was the fashionable florist and the box of 
flowers was inscribed “K. u. K. Hoflieferant,” mean¬ 
ing the usual high-sounding formula of the shop-keep¬ 
ers—“Imperial and Royal Court Purveyor.” He sup¬ 
plied the court and all the nobility, officers and their 
ladies with flowers. Actresses, cabaret dancers came 
also under the head. 

Although more than a yard in length, the end of the 
box was cut off, exposing the stems of roses for another 
foot, covered with green glazed oil paper. . . . Mar- 


^obblcr’s boy. 



22 Merry-Go-Round 

tin took the box upstairs. Nepomuck took it into the 
count’s room. 

It was seven-thirty o’clock and the clothes lay all 
over the floor. The dog was sleeping. The count was 
sleeping. The shades were down. 

Nepomuck put the box of flowers on the dresser, 
looking for the name of the sender on the outside with¬ 
out result. . . . He received a little shock when he 
saw the ebony crucifix, which usually stood there, lying 
on the floor with a woman’s gold slipper heel on the 
image of Christ! It was Gretel’s shoe, which, having 
fallen from Franzl’s hand the hours previous, carried 
down the sanctified crucifix with it, settling on top. 

Nepomuck picked it up and straightened the room; 
he looked at himself in the mirror above the mantel 
and stroked his scraggy moustache. There was a mir¬ 
ror directly opposite, fastened on the bed behind the 
count’s head. It had a sliding arrangement that moved 
upward ... all young fashionable men had these for 
a purpose. . . . Nepomuck saw himself reflected two, 
three, no—five or six times as the mirrors faced and 
renewed the image a dozen times or endlessly. . . . 
When his survey was over, he stooped, removed the 
clothes from the floor and took the pants, overcoat and 
boots, und so weiter . . . into the dressing-room; the 
balance went into the laundry. . . . Then he went 
further, perceiving the hour of day, and in the bath¬ 
room was Martin, the civilian valet, starting prepara¬ 
tions for the bath. . . . 

Martin faced the Bursche with one look,—it meant 
“Well, have you waked up the master?” 

Nepomuck shrugged one shoulder, 

“When one marches around the whole night he 
sleeps well in the morning, no? Come, let’s put some 
lavender salts into his excellency’s bath this day.” He 
dipped his hands into a crystal bottle, scooping out 
large handfulls and dropping them into the tub. . . . 


Morning Following Night 


23 


Behind his back the Laibdiener 1 took a small bottle 
of perfume and moistened his handkerchief surrepti¬ 
tiously with a few drops; but Nepomuck caught him 
at this and gave him a cuff and a shove! 

“So, you are taking perfume again! Come, I’ll 
show you a little of that!” and he deliberately, taking 
his time, selected the largest, most extravagant looking 
bottle on the dressing-table where it stood among a 
couple of dozen, and withdrew the long crystal stop¬ 
per. . . . He wiped this slowly across his moustache, 
first on the right side, then on the left. . . . 

“If you want to see further, look on!” . . . Out 
came his pocket handkerchief from his pocket, he 
poured on the scent from the bottle until it ran over 
onto the floor, forming a pool. Setting the bottle down, 
he squeezed the handkerchief as if he were wringing 
it out—and the pool became a little lake. . . . 

“Now,” he said insolently, “just go and wipe that 
up so his excellency’s feet don’t get wet ... it might 
give him a chill, he has been out all night.” 

No man is a hero to his valet, especially when he is 
not concerned with a uniform. But the valet Martin 
was stupefied. 

“That ’s acting like a cur,” he said,—“it ’s a low- 
down thing to do.” 

“Is it?” 

Nepomuck then showed him the seat of his trousers— 
“Just watch here!” He lifted the tail of his coat and 
put a delicate dose of the high-priced perfume directly 
on the spot where he usually sat down. 

“That’s very nice now! What an idiot,” cried the 
Laibdiener , “to be sure. . . . only a man from the 
cow-stables would think of a thing like that.” 

“Does it look that way to you?” responded Nepo¬ 
muck, coolly corking up the bottle. . . . “Well, come, 


^ody servant. 



24 


Merry-Go-Round 


box my ears for it and I’ll wipe up the floor with you— 
underneath the washbowl now!” . . . He straightened 
his coat and shook his chin out of his collar. 

The other turned the water into the tub, ignoring 
him; he was paid to hold his tongue, not to lose his 
temper. 

Nepomuck went out of the room. 

When Franzl was awakened by the Bursche a mo¬ 
ment later, he at first thought the hand touching his 
shoulder so gently belonged to somebody else. He 
was, in fact, dreaming of a lady. But presently the 
valet shook harder, Franzl opened his eyes, perceived 
the face of Nepomuck looking directly into his own, 
and he reached out his hand and levelled a pillow at 
him! The pillow fell short. Nepomuck was a good 
hand to duck, but he now immediately removed the 
clock, water-bottle and glass—all loose and tempting 
objects in the proximity—and mentioned cordially— 
“Herr Graf , time to get up.” 

“Show me the clock,” grumbled the Herr Graf. 

Nepomuck did so and Franzl moved the hands back 
so that he could turn over and sleep for an additional 
ten minutes. . . . 

Hardly had his head touched the pillow, however, 
and his thoughts resumed toward the dream state, than 
Nepomuck lifted his riding boots, allowing them to fall 
to the floor with a heavy jar! Instantly his eyes flew 
open— 

“Rindsvieh! du Esel . . . Kamel!” 1 

All this abuse which he poured out caused him to 
become wider awake, which was exactly the effect 
desired. . . . 

“What time is it?” 

“Herr Graf, eight o’clock . . . and your excellency 
must be at the Fusswashung ... I beg your par¬ 
don. . . .” 


lu Ox! you donkey... camel! 1 



Morning Following Night 


25 


Franzl grumbled again, ruffling up his own hair. . . . 
“All right. . . he stepped gingerly to the floor and 
sat down on the edge of his bed. With this motion, 
Spitzbub, his retriever on the hearth-rug, commenced 
to rise, stretching himself as Franzl did so, bending up 
and down, opening his mouth in a wide yawn. 

The Bursche brought the flowers from “Fossati” 
and laid them on the silk coverlet. . . . 

“What’s that?” Franzl undid the string, smiled 
with the effort and blinked at the American Beauty 
roses uncovered within. . . . Here was a card as well, 
small, dainty, square and perfumed ... he placed it 
to his nose, read the message, winking at it slowly— 

“Bonjour, mon ami . . . je t*envoie mes baisers.” 

He wrinkled his nose in sarcasm and repeated the 
name at the end of the missive: “Claire . . . Claire 
. . . . ” Spitzbub came sniffing up and he shoved the 
roses to one side. “Hello, old fellow,” began the mas¬ 
ter to the dog affectionately, “here comes the usual 
offering . . . that’s the sixth or the seventh batch of 
kisses she sends me . . . that Claire—she’s a hot one. . 
. . . You know what she is?” He patted the back of 
the dog and whispered something into his ear—“That’s 
what she is— nicht wahr?” 

Sleepily he found his way into the dressing-room; 
Nepomuck lay on one knee, polishing his boots; Mar¬ 
tin waited with his hot water drawn in the bathroom. 

All these apartments were decorated in a choice 
manner. Cabinets ranged around the walls, built in 
everywhere with racks and racks of uniforms—the 
clothing of an officer of the cavalry. . . . Hats were 
here, belonging to regiments and occasions, swords, 
saber-tassels, silk shirts, silk under-drawers, military 
cape-coats. . . . Franzl was never undecided what he 
wanted to wear. The court calendar attended to this 
detail. 

He had his breakfast served in the bathtub, which 


26 


Merry-Go-Round 


had a back and head-piece against which he could rest 
himself. A half-hour was consumed in breakfasting 
and then he was rubbed down by his Laibdiener, his 
silk underwear was brought to him, he was shaved, 
pedicured, manicured, atomized with Parfum des 
Milles Fleurs, his military hair-cut brushed to a nicety 
until every hair was in its best spot, and his coat collar 
buttoned up, the medals on his breast. . . . Franz 
Maxmillian, Count von Hohenegg, was ready to at¬ 
tend his emperor at the court. His sword was hooked 
onto his side, the moustache binding taken off. Franzl 
donned his short cape and helmet. . . . 

He was about to go out of the door when the tele¬ 
phone bell rang. 

Nepomuck answered this and called him. 

“Who is it?” 

“The Countess von Steinbrueck, your excellency.” 

Franzl made a grimace, threw aside the cigarette 
from his mouth and answered, annoyed. . . . 


IV 


GISELLA 

Countess Gisella von Steinbrueck had one passion in 
the world. It was her horses. She liked to ride and 
she rode every day, whether the hour was morning, 
noon or afternoon, but preferably morning. 

When she called the Count von Hohenegg in the 
morning on the telephone, although it was between nine 
and ten o’clock, she was already back from the Krieau 1 , 
where she cantered from six o’clock as if distance meant 
nothing but the desire to put it behind horses’ hoofs. 

Behind her rode a groom, six paces back and two to 
the left. She rode her mare side-saddle and he rode 
his horse in white knee breeches and boots with light 
tops, her livery with cockade on his hat and so on. . . . 

This groom was a former horse-trainer on the race¬ 
track in England. He was a Scotchman by birth, Jock 
Steers, but among the jockeys, race-track men, gamblers 
and roustabouts in stables and in the paddock, he had 
always familiarly been dubbed “Jock the lady-killer,” 
and this title remained with him wherever he went, in 
England or the continent; the reason was he had a par¬ 
ticular attraction for ladies and they loved him from all 
stations in life, sometimes a scullery maid, sometimes a 
laundress, often the wife of a butcher or petty trades¬ 
man, and he had even been known to receive a look 
from a real lady of the upper classes, though what his 
attractions were, unless hidden, could never have struck 
a casual eye. 

Jock was of the bulldog type. His chin hung flaccid 
until he was aroused and then he had a fighting jaw 

"•small section in the Prater made up of little meadows and ditches 
for steeplechasing among amateurs. 

27 



28 


Merry-Go-Round 


that was undershot like any criminal or bully. He 
parted his black hair in the middle and brushed it to 
both sides until it was like a mat, straight but flat. His 
square face had no beauty; he was simply thick and 
dull. . . . Even his figure was dumpy, his waist too 
short, and without his livery he looked more like an 
underworld tout than a race-track gambler, although 
he always sought to dress in the flashy style of a book¬ 
maker. . . . 

This man attracted Gisella, and, such was he, that 
she even attempted to have an affair with him and was 
succeeding pretty well. 

She was the daughter of the war minister, a man 
second only in importance, you might say, to the em¬ 
peror of Austria-Hungary. He had, certainly, the 
destiny of his country in hand, he could make war or 
peace, and did, eventually, succeed in making war! He 
had an unlimited power and held a portfolio that would 
gladly have been taken over by any number of men of 
ambition who were noble and therefore entitled to the 
position at court. . . . 

Conrad von Steinbrueck was noble through nineteen 
generations, and Gisella had, therefore, almost as great 
a descendency as Franzl, since he harked back thirty- 
one times; but they both could count their ancestors 
among the warriors of the country and back of the 
warriors, the robber-barons, who plundered for more 
selfish gains, although the same ends of carnage and 
destruction. 

Count von Steinbrueck was a widower for eight 
years. During this time he had never had a desire to 
marry, so his daughter was head of the household and 
grew up without mother-love or much paternal solici¬ 
tude. And the reason was this: Conrad, Count von 
Steinbrueck, had been raised in the loose way of Vienna 
life. He was a man who lived and loved in his own 
style, heedless of tomorrow, extravagant, overbearing, 


Gisella 


29 


conceited, arrogant. . . . He kept a mistress and 
had many indiscretions of his youth and follies of his 
later life to look back upon. But this loose life never 
stopped with him. It was a part of his character and 
daily doings. He went to court and observed the 
etiquette very punctiliously—because outside of his of¬ 
ficial position he was equally low, unconcerned, immoral 
and degenerated. . . . 

Coming from such a father, the traits of the Coun¬ 
tess Gisella could be readily understood. She was shot 
through with singular independence of spirit, tainted 
with irresponsibleness, as it were. . . . Her life was 
one round of gaiety; she never thought outside, above 
or below the most extreme application of the Viennese 
formula: to live and let live! 

She lived warily, watchful of all sides of the court 
life, learning intrigues from the wives of functionaries 
and hypocrisy from their husbands, although she was, 
above all else, not a hypocrite. When she loved, she 
was willing to cast over the world. This recklessness 
had a charm. It might have made her an empress. 
It made her the dupe of that most common of crafty 
underlings—a stableman. . . . 

Gisella had, in her way, a most singular history. 

Born in the highest estate, she sought the lowest. 
Surrounded by luxury, she craved sensations of the 
other extreme. She preferred to make love in a stable 
instead of a palace, to lie in the straw when plush and 
velour and rich damasks were offered her; beside the 
horses’ hoofs and in the odour of barnyards she felt a 
transport of emotion that could, strangely, never be 
aroused when gold and jewels were around her person 
and the wooer was a count or baron, properly clean 
and pomaded. 

In accord with some stray vanity which prompted him 
to direct his only child’s footsteps along the ambitious 
path, Conrad von Steinbrueck selected from the em- 


30 


Merry-Go-Round 


peror’s retinue the man he proposed she should marry. 
There was an irony about this. He must be highborn, 
needless to say an equal or superior, and rich in his 
own right. . . . The morals of the young man were 
not in question. Young men of the upper court were 
all moral. That is, they had the moral right to do 
what they pleased,—before marriage particularly! 
Afterward, it was up to their wives. If the union did 
not succeed—well, it succeeded on the surface. Who 
knew the difference? 

It was the proper thing for Franzl, the Count von 
Hohenegg, to be married to Gisella, the Countess von 
Steinbrueck. She was twenty-four and he was thirty- 
one. 

When the blond young countess was presented to the 
irresponsible young man, a meeting took place between 
two equally sharp flints. Or it was the flint and the 
steel. She was very much a woman of the world. He 
was a man about town. He came to the meeting—ex¬ 
pecting to be amused. She was full of sophisticated 
curiosity. . . . 

When the flint and the steel had struck, both realized 
the match was in their station. It was as good as any. 
He accepted the burden of a fiancee as she her pros¬ 
pective marriage—part of a necessity, something both 
would have pleasantly avoided had not the world de¬ 
creed it that young, wealthy people, without an ob¬ 
stacle, were expected to tie themselves together in order 
to satisfy some whim of condition. It belonged to a 
full life. 

Franzl lived up to the requirements of just such an 
engagement, appearing in the cafes in mufti—against 
the rules of his army. He appeared in uniform when 
he appeared with Gisella, with his regiment, with his 
emperor. . . . 

Gisella found her emotions absolutely untouched by 
this function—an engagement to be married to a count 


Gisella 


31 


of Hohenegg. She was naturally emotional. She 
craved love, excitement. Adventure was to her the 
only thing not regulated by household, servants and 
routine. 

She had two maids to dress her, undress her. Cham¬ 
pagne was a part of the diet in Palais Steinbrueck. 
She had it for breakfast, lunch and dinner, before 
breakfast, after dinner. ... It is impossible to con¬ 
ceive when it was not being poured for the countess or 
her father. . . . Reckless but not dissolute, always in 
lively humour, never debauched, she was accustomed to 
constant stimulation. Her mind dreamed, but she had 
a sharp eye. Her eye-brows were arched from a per¬ 
petual semi-caustic and all-knowing look upon life. . . . 

Her wardrobe was outre at first glance—more like 
a courtesan’s than a woman of fashion. But what, after 
all, is the difference between so-called women of fash¬ 
ion in Vienna, and courtesans? The one, the other, 
lives extravagantly. Neither has a sense of modera¬ 
tion. Fashion is immoderate. She demands extremes 
in everything. . . . To be balanced and have an even 
keel is to belong to the middle classes. 

Ball gowns constitute the greater part of women-of- 
fashion’s wardrobes. Low-cut bodices belong as well 
to the lives of courtesans. Both wear negligees of 
flimsy texture, furs to drive in open carriages, habits 
for mounts,—tweeds are their disguise. A travelling 
suit of tweed lowers the woman of fashion and raises 
the courtesan to the level of her unobserved sisters; 
and to be a successful traveler it is necessary to be 
unobserved—especially on clandestine enterprises. . . . 
Gisella’s wardrobe was then composed of these items. 
She had trifles like black silk underthings which made 
her blond beauty seem very fair; and the modesty of 
black in her case was the height of audacity—it out¬ 
lined her form so distinctly. 

When she arrived from her ride in the Krieau, and 


32 


Merry-Go-Round 


the groom behind, before calling the Count von Ho- 
henegg on the telephone the morning of Green Thurs¬ 
day, she cantered directly over her sidewalk into her 
courtyard, No. 7, Bartensteingasse, and dismounted 
before the inner doorway. . . . 

It was rather dark in this doorway. Her portier 
stood outside. 

Her groom gave her his elbow. She slipped to the 
ground. 

Here it was only right and proper that she should 
dismiss the groom abruptly. Instead she allowed her 
hand to follow down his arm and come in contact with 
his hand; the fingers closed over one another. . . . 
The riding gloves did not prevent a distinct thrill from 
leaving her arm and going through her system to the 
tune of staccato heart beats! Exactly it was as if she 
had run a great distance.... 

Jock the lady-killer allowed the hand to remain in 
his without daring to give it a pressure. He understood 
highborn ladies. They went as far as they pleased, 
not he. They had distinct advances to make, and made 
them, but he could not even raise a finger or a hand— 
not yet!—with the Countess Gisella to show her he was 
a man, that he had any of the rights of males to be 
the aggressor. 

A sly look, however, passed over his face and he 
gave her a sidelong glance that met her own. She 
could go far with him. He understood. He had only 
to wait, she would make the offer... She was about 
to satisfy a whim, and he stood perfectly motionless, 
the servant and the plaything, but nursing the fact that 
if she went far enough—the Countess Gisella—she 
would have gone just too far, and he would be the 
master! 

Gisella’s feelings overcame even prudence, which she 
had in such small quantities. She was moved and 
amorous, and adventure looked her in the face. . 


Gisella 


33 


The courtyard was empty; her mouth, on a level with 
his own, drew dangerously close—she kissed him! . . . 
and without waiting for a word or a sound, she drew 
away and entered her house. 

Jock sent a significant smile after her. He took his 
horses and went into the stable. He had no respect 
for his mistress, but a great deal of vanity for himself, 
and felt, if she were conquered by his attractions, there 
was a lot he could expect—higher wages, her favours, 
hours of love, and maybe—his mind went so far, he 
could get her in deep enough to land a case of black¬ 
mail, if he wanted. This was the first grand lady that 
actually fell, all the way, for him. 

He saw the other groom in the stable and passed 
him a wink— 

“Some horsewoman, ain’t she? That baby’s got 
style, and you can take it from me, there’s women 
can ride and women that can’t, but she beats the 
Dutch.” 

“Rides like hell!” . . . 

“Sure she rides like hell, but she knows when to pull 
’em and they don’t even sweat . . . that’s the real 
goods. How long you been here, Bun?” 

“Oh, four years,” said the other groom, rubbing his 
forehead. 

“Clean the mare first. She’s got her cinch open.” 

“Who done that?” 

“She. She come pretty near to undress her. . . . 
And see here, Bunny, if the Countess von Stein- 
brueck comes into the stable to talk to me, you get 
out!” 

“Hell, why?” 

“You know damn well why!” 

“No I don’t . . . she talks horse to me, too.” 

“Well, she don’t talk horse to me!” . . . 

The countess went upstairs and into the hands of 
her maids. By the time she got out of her habit, the 


34 


Merry-Go-Round 


champagne bucket arrived and she lay down on her 
chaise longue with a black cigar between her fingers. 

She smoked cigars preferably. 

Outside of the niche, where a double set of draperies 
flowed overhead and the chaise longue was placed, a 
Louis XV dressing-table stood and beside it a tabouret. 
The tabouret held a statue of Priapus at the Pool. 
She placed the Count von Hohenegg’s photograph in 
full uniform before it. From a sense of humour, per¬ 
haps. . . . 

The picture reminded her of some gossip she heard 
the night before. The war minister, her father, moved 
in much the same circle as Franzl. In court he was 
attendant in his official capacity and in reach of the 
young Flugeladjutant 1 ; in gay circles he had the same 
inclinations. His mistress was Elvira, whom the three 
cavalrymen discussed at the Ringstrasse Cafe, and 
where they went, he went, and frequently was there at 
the same time. 

But it was not often he spoke of these things. Of 
late he observed that Gisella was laughing more often 
and her wit was getting pointed. She even gave him a 
comrade’s look and called him “Papa!” good- 
naturedly. . . . 

He suspected she knew all about him! 

“Come, where were you last night, papa?” 

“With Franzl.” 

“And Franzl?—” 

She knew more than he did! She undressed him 
with a glance. . . . 

“Come, papa, you and I are not children,—or are 
we? We like to play! Well, tell me, were you and 
Franzl at the Chapeau Rouge * 2 3 ? I heard you singing 
the Fiakerlied 3 as you came in.” . . . 

Sving-adjutant. 

2 a gay night cafe, catering to high-class society and cocottes. 

3 Song of the Coach, a gay song. 



Gisella 


35 


He swore under his breath. 

“Of course you are late for the Hofburg. Go on, 
the emperor’s Fusswashung can’t wait . . . but don’t 
be afraid that I am criticising you!” . . . 

She had her maid call the Count von Hohenegg on 
the telephone. 

“Hello, I’ll detain him a little! 

“Good morning, Franzl.” 



y. 


THE FOOTWASHING 

“Good morning,” replied Franzl. 

“I heard you had a glorious time last night,” said 
Gisella. 

“Not quite so, my dear. I fretted through . . . 
saviour of a few wallflowers . . . didn’t dance much, 
Lent, don’t you know. ... I missed you immensely, 
really ...” 

Their lips smiled in common although they were 
blocks apart. . . . 

A trifle cynically Gisella countered: 

“Well, you will have an opportunity this evening to 
make up for that. I expect you. . . ” 

“Now, really, my dear, I was just about to call you 
up. Will it be putting you out if I postpone the invita¬ 
tion? I have duti—” 

“Postpone! You are formal. Say the invitation is 
lost and try again.” 

“I was just about to say that duties at the Hofburg 
will keep me very closely engaged the entire day and 
evening, and it may even be—” 

“Of course,” said Gisella, “service is service . . . 
and what are her colours, may I ask—since you wear 
them? ...” 

Franzl was about to lose his temper. 

“I am surprised you look upon it that way,” he said 
in his most suave tones—“and your father the minister 
of war. I should think you, of all women, would ap¬ 
preciate—” 

“Tut, tut, tut, my dear . . . you make a mountain 

36 


The Footwashing 


37 


of a hillock. To be frank with you, papa and I under¬ 
stand one another fully! If I were to say to you what 
I say to him—well, you would think me an indelicate 
woman. But, cheerily, Franzl,—the less said about 
ante-nuptials the better ... I don’t deserve your ex¬ 
planations.” 

“Meaning—” 

“They wouldn’t convince me.” 

“And if I don’t make them—” 

“So much the better!” . . . 

“I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

“Don’t strain.” . . . 

He hung up the phone, intending not to go. He 
left the room and outside shrugged his shoulders. 

He would go, he wouldn’t. . . what a woman! He 
hated her, he didn’t love her, he didn’t care. . . . 

At the entrance his carriage waited, driver on the 
box, footman at attention. Briskly he stepped in and 
drove to the Hofburg. . . . 

As he entered the inner palace gate the guards rose 
to attention, giving him a salute with the eyes right 
and their officer with the hand. He replied. At the 
Swiss door he was again met by a guard and at the 
side entrance likewise, where the carriage stopped, he 
dismounted and entered the Hofburg. . . . 

From this time on he assumed an automatic aristo¬ 
cratic bearing. He was in the court atmosphere, about 
to be in the very court presence. . . . But Franzl was 
light-hearted and could not for very long content him¬ 
self with etiquette. 

Rudi and Nicki, his companions of the previous 
evening, were before him, and a third wing-adjutant, 
Prince Hochmut, a captain of the Life Guards Mounted 
and older than the others but as much of a companion 
as any. Im Flugeladjutanten-Zimmer 1 they waited on 
the ceremonial master. Franzl strode in— 


1 room of the wing-adjutants. 



38 


Merry-Go-Round 


“Guten morgen, meine Herrschaften, wie gehts?” 

“Auf zwei Beinen wie ein Storch!” responded the 
prince to Franzl: “Ich hab gehort dasz du, du Teufel 
du, gestern Nacht mit der Konigen vom Moulin Rouge 
davon gelaufen hist!” he said facetiously. 

“Lieber Kamerad, ich werd dock nicht auf dich 
war ten” responded Franzl,— “du laszt einem ja 
garnichts iibrig. . . 

“My dear Franzl, you flatter me. Apres moi, und 
so weiter. ... 111 

“And you, Nicki? . . . and you, Rudi? . . . ” 

Each gave him his hand. 

“And now, my dear friends, we go to the front—we 
have our duty by the emperor. . . . ” 

They rose in common. 

On entering the Hall of Ceremonies they were 
greeted by people here and there in the Tribune. 
The prince returned to the door and gave a sign and 
on this entered, one after the other, the war minister, 
generals, diplomats, members of the clergy,—it was a 
solemn and stately procession. Before them marched 
the cross-bearer . . . after them the master of cere¬ 
monies with his office-staff in hand. Simultaneously 
the life guards posted behind the Tribune and on either 
side came to rigid attention. 

A banquet table stood facing the Tribune and on the 
high bench sat twelve elderly men with faces like the 
apostles grown old . . . some were bald, all wrinkled and 
most of them wore heavy beards. . . . The master 
of ceremonies rapped three times with his staff: the 
archdukes entered, two abreast, Franz Ferdinand, heir 

1 “Good morning, friends, how goes it?” 

“On Jtwo legs like a stork!” responded the prince to Franzl: “I 
have just heard that you, you young devil, eloped with the queen 
of the Moulin Rouge last night!” 

“My dear comrade, I don’t wait on your permission ... if I did, 
I would get left!” 

“After me the deluge, et cetera.” 



The Footwashing 


39 


apparent to the throne, Leopold Salvatore, Francis 
Salvatore, Frederick Eugene, Karl Franz-Josef. . . . 
Everyone in the room had risen except the old men on 
the bench, who represented the poor and the lowly of 
Austria-Hungary. The archdukes took their places be¬ 
fore the table, facing the Tribune . . . —and then the 
emperor entered, Franz-Josef I in the uniform of white 
coat, red trousers with two gold stripes and spurs at 
his heels. His step was firm and manner slightly bored, 
very familiar with a task he performed for the sixty- 
fifth time! . . . He gave his chapeau to the head 
chamberlain . . . and this was the signal for the en¬ 
trance of eight Arcieren and eight Hungarian guards, 
followed by six Truchsessen and eight pages who 
carried platters containing food. . . . 

The emperor commenced the ceremony by placing 
one of the platters of food on the knees of each of the 
old men. As soon as the first platter had been placed, 
Frederick Eugene stepped forward and removed it. 
. . . Francis Salvatore removed the second, no sooner 
had it been laid down before the second man. . . . 
Franz Ferdinand the third, and so on. . . . 

The ceremony now commenced to be very tiresome 
and there was a movement of restlessness among the 
younger guardsmen, of whom Franzl and Nicki and 
Rudi and Eitel, the Prince Hochmut, made four. . . . 

They yawned behind their hands. The spectacle of 
a man, poor and scarcely accustomed to luxurious food 
pr that in luxurious surroundings, being served with a 
platter only to have it summarily removed, was, with 
all its significance of humility on the all-highest em¬ 
peror’s part, rather ludicrous. Consequently, everyone 
was gratified when the duties had progressed as far as 
the twelfth and last man, and Karl Franz-Josef, after 
the prescribed custom, had relieved him of his platter 
untouched and presented it to a life guard for removal, 
as those preceding had done.^ 


40 


M erry-Go-R ound 


Lackeys cleared away the whole table. House of¬ 
ficers commenced to unbuckle the shoes and take off the 
stockings on the right foot of each representative of 
the poor and aged in Vienna . . . others at the same 
time spread a long white sheet over their knees. The 
emperor removed his gloves. 

Now the praydieu 1 was brought forward with a 
page to either side, carrying tall lit candles, and two 
acolytes who swung the censers . . . Two priests entered 
the room with a gold pitcher and basin, and approached 
Franz-Josef . . . the preliminaries were ready, the 
priest with the gold pitcher commenced at the first man, 
pouring the water slowly over his foot . . . the em¬ 
peror knelt down and dried the foot with a towel, and 
so on. . . . This monotony became more difficult to 
attend with silence and attention at each man, and so 
the four chamberlains at the edge of the proceedings 
commenced to look at each other and then to chat in a 
murmured voice. 

Nicki said to Rudi: “Franzl’s idea was better . . . 
I would rather wash the feet of women, and young and 
sweet ones, too.” 

Rudi scarcely kept himself from bursting out laugh¬ 
ing— 

“Decidedly you are right!” . . . 

“How can we tell Franzl the bathing party is a 
bloomer?” 

“Don’t. Let us substitute something else.” 

Prince Eitel Hochmut put in a word— 

“Now, how is it in the emperor’s presence you can¬ 
not leave off your silly gequatch 1 2 about women?” 

“Don’t listen,” returned Nicki. 

“Nun, how can it be helped, whether I listen or not? 
. . . the whole court can hear it! Who is the lady 
you are talking about, or ladies?” . . . 


1 literally, pray-God, a kneeling stool. 

2 jabber. 



The Footwashing 


41 


“A party . . friends of Franzl. It has gone on the 
rocks, has the party ... we have no place to hold it. 
Can you suggest—” 

“Who are the ladies?” 

Nicki enumerated them, the prince listened atten¬ 
tively . . . regretfully . . . 

“How inconvenient! . . . Elvira goes to the Bourg- 
theatre with the war minister to see Kainz 1 ? . . . well, 
why does she not give you her house? . . . um, das 
ist gemein . . . what was to go on special? ...” 

Nicki put his hand to his lips and whispered, 

“A bathing party! Gretel to go in—altogether, 
Franzl providing the champagne . . . Roderer demi 
sec, the real thing, and chilled to the taste . . . they 
have called the party off as we can’t hold it in the open, 
can we?” 

“However, I don’t care ... I would have been 
busy anyhow. But the next night that is a good night. 
Can you make it the next night?” . . . 

“If you are invited, yes . . . however, rats and 
fiddlesticks! Who is going to tell Franzl? I cannot 
promise you anything ...” 

“Let me know. ...” 

“Ssh!” 

Nicki poked him with his elbow, jerking his head 
toward the Tribune. The emperor had hesitated at 
the sixth man with one knee on the floor, listening as if 
he thought the voices he heard came from below. On 
May 1st—Socialists’ Day, or the parade of the so¬ 
cialists without police interference, God forbid, in 
Vienna—frequently the voices came up from below, 
angry voices crying: “Down with the monarchy!” or 
“Down with the Jews! Long live Doctor Adler!” 
And the labour battalions, led by Adler the Jew, editor 
of the workers’ paper and a red-hot social-democrat— 


1 Joseph Kainz, famous actor. 



42 


Merry-Go-Round 


Sozi, in slang!—passed in parade with red neckties and 
red carnations and dirty finger-nails and the “Marsel- 
laise” on their lips, before the Hofburg . . . mobs 
drunk on revolutionary words!—but loving each his or 
her Austria as that Austria was, a monarchy, and, prin¬ 
cipally, the old emperor, Franz-Josef I. “Down with 
capital! long live labour! long live the revolution!” 
Such voices, murmurs from below, came to the em¬ 
peror’s ears. No wonder he became apprehensive of 
May 1st, although Franz-Josef knew his people . . . 
children! . . . 

He rode among them, the cries changed with the 
approach of the white feathers on the helmet of his 
bodyguard who rode beside the driver on the carriage 
and announced the coming of the emperor ... all in 
one word they shouted now, so rapidly does contradic¬ 
tion follow in the minds of the Viennese: 

“T)own-w\th-the-monarchy-hoch-der-Kaiser!” 

The emperor rode alone, without the customary aide, 
oerfectly at ease, with sang-froid, not arrogant . . . 
kindly, saluting all the way in from Schonbrunn. 1 

Is it any wonder the people loved Franz-Josef? 

. . . But hearing no further voices, the emperor 
was reminded that this was not May 1st—a momentary 
confusion in his mind due perhaps to his advanced 
years—and he continued the ceremony of the foot¬ 
washing. . . . 

Hostile demonstrations against his court always 
troubled him. Against himself they were not levelled. 
But the “drones,” as the social-democrats were in the 
habit of designating the functionaries who drew big pay 
and amused themselves at the expense of the red- 
shirted workers,—against these all the abuse in the 
world should be hurled! 

The war minister was disliked, he was blamed for 


^manner palace of the emperor. 



The Footwashing 


43 


the large expenditures of the army upkeep . . . the 
army was disliked, it used the money . . . Such a cere¬ 
mony as a foot-washing for the purpose of humility 
frequently drew from orators on Socialists’ Day—as 
they never forgot anything and used all situations to 
illustrate their point,— 

“Let us weep at the remembrance, comrades, on 
Green Thursday, recall: the Fusswashung! . . . such 
farce, a mockery! They wash the feet of the poor 
and now we are persecuted, hounded, kicked by their 
feet! . . . brothers, let us arise,” etc., etc. . . . 

But they never arose . . . and meanwhile the foot¬ 
washing was finished. The emperor stood up and 
stretched out his hands to the priest who held the golden 
bowl full of water. Formally he washed his hands, 
drying them on a towel provided, took a platter from 
the hands of his treasurer, who was present, and hung 
the twelve bags of gold from the platter one each 
around the necks of the old men. . . . 


VI 


THE PRATER 

Vienna . . . old . . . gray . . . historical . . . the 
town of joy and gladness and of mirth ... of song, 
of wine, and heart affairs—also has sordid sorrows and 
grief. . . . But the grief is mingled with mirth and 
the sentimental tears with prankish laughter. . . . Dukes 
and princes are shoulders with beggars on the streets, 
and women chaste against women bold of face and 
manner. . . . 

Vienna always had a code of morals all her own. 
Bravely idling away the hours to the strains of Strauss 
or Lehar, she never considered the morrow. It was 
truly Viennese to be careless, soul-free, ironic, only half- 
responsible . . . The Strizzi 1 following the palace 
watch with his coat collar half turned up, half down, 
represented the indecision and lazy indifference of the 
riff-raff. He carried his cigarette over his ear—brava¬ 
do. “I don’t know nothin’, I don’t hafta learn nothin’, 
I don’t hafta do nothin’; I’m a somebody anyhow, 
thank Gawd!” . . . But the blue Danube meant to 
him what it did to the washer-girls, strong and stout, 
the nurse-maids pushing baby carriages, the soldiers 
making love to them; Stephansdom 2 was a source of 
pride to a Falott 3 and to a Wachmann 4 . . . weren’t 
they responsible for both! 

Take their clothes away, they were still Viennese! 
it was impossible to destroy the nationality. . . . 

Nowhere in all Vienna was this attitude better ex- 

1 apache, lower world citizen. 

2 St. Stephen's Cathedral. 

8 same as Strizzi. 

^policeman. 


u 



The Prater 


45 


emplified than in the location known as the Leopold- 
stadt, the district chiefly composed of the great pleasure 
park, the Prater. It lay between the Danube and 
Danube Canal—a vast expanse, planted in trees, chest¬ 
nut and linden mostly ... It had green meadows 
stretching to the rim of the Danube. 

Along the main avenue, the Praterstrasse, flowed the 
carriages, livery and Fiaker, the people on foot and 
bicycles, and motor-cars from the Ringstrasse over the 
Danube Channel under the Aspernbriicke 1 , going to 
the trotting course at the Rotunda 2 , or along the Haup- 
tallee. ... A street car took the less fashionable 
into the Volksprater 3 which was formed like a midway 
with concessions and booths on every hand, and small 
cafes with stringed orchestras, and giants and dwarfs 
and such entertainment. . . . The poor came along 
like beggars, the clerks with Sunday money to spend 
in their pockets. 

Thus were all classes represented. 

A railroad whistles over the viaduct that is at the 
Prater gate. Under this is a broad, sunny street ring¬ 
ing with laughter and the jingle and jangle of bells. 
Music flows out of the tin-pan variety that is heard on 
circus lots and in fairs. . . . Summer finds little shade 
and no fresh air in this street, too much coal-damp from 
the engines on the viaduct drops to the Wurstelprater 4 
below. But the people lounge here the entire day, 
leaning against fences and on the copings, sitting like 
flies under the heat of Summer, perfectly quiet. They 
are watching the stream of pleasure-seekers from the 
capital flow past: servants in a hurry, tradesmen with 
wives and children, a cook, a student. . . . Wagons 

1 bridge of Aspern, leading from Stubenring to Praterstrasse. 

2 great dome and building remaining from Exposition of 1873, lo¬ 
cated by trotting race course in Prater. 

people’s Prater. 

f Wurstel from Hanswurst, Austrian “Punch and Judy”—the Volks¬ 
prater. 



46 


Merry-Go-R ound 


rattle along here even on Sunday, which lasts, with the 
Wurstelprater, from Monday to Saturday! 

Every day is Sunday to the celebrant. Nor can the 
midway open too soon in the spring to be called summer¬ 
time. 

Now it is April. 

With the first breath of warmth all the booths 
opened their shutters and set out barkers to call in, with 
their silly phrases and stupid cajolleries, the earliest of 
the summer visitors. “The Queen of the Night,’’ in 
the very first booth after the gypsy restaurant, set a 
star of pasteboard on her forehead, straightened her 
tinsel robes and waited behind closed doors for her 
customers. . . . The deep-sea diver tried out his hel¬ 
met which never went below the surface of the water! 
A light wind, crossing the fields of the Prater, started 
a rustling among the chestnut branches where the first 
buds were opening their wax petals before the leaves.... 

Between the Gasthaus Garten 1 and the little box 
which houses the goddesses, Daphne, Fortuna and 
Flora, were the dwarfs, tall as children of five, with 
voices—each of the males—like thunder! How they 
bellowed, shouting for themselves! ... the children 
stood and laughed outside, frightened but fascinated, 
like their elders before some contortionist or freak of 
nature with which the Wurstelprater was full. . . . 

The father-dwarf commenced, bellowing so loudly 
he shook the trees—“Kassa! Kassa! Kassa! Kass’! 
Kass’! Kass’! ...” he clapped his hands, rang a bell 
lustily. . . . “Lotsa liddle dwarfs! sister dwarf . . . 
brother dwarf . . . mother, father, grandmother . . . 
mother-in-law dwarf . . . wife dwarf . . . myself dwarf 
. . . children dwarfs . . . lotsa liddle dwarfs!” . . . 

They were shown between a two-headed calf and a 
gigantic lady. . . . Formerly the booth was a monkey 


*a garden restaurant. 



The Prater 


47 


theatre but now it swarmed with eight little men and 
women, dancing and amusing the crowd. . . . 

Astarte, the aerial wonder, came next. Her barker 
was very lively and screamed continually, most agonis¬ 
ingly . . “Dis is no fake, no schwindle ... go in, 
come oudt . . . you want your money back? I give it 
two times over! Go in, come oudt. ...” The 
aerial wonder was presented before the booth in pink 
tights and a green sash around the interesting part of 
her body, heavy-lidded and stolid. ... In the Gast- 
haus the people were drinking beer, listening to the 
clatter of plates and clink of fine glasses from the Eis- 
vogel Cafe 1 across the street. This Eisvogel was the 
real restaurant of the Volksprater, with tables set un¬ 
derneath the chestnut trees and finest wines and liquors 
served. The Oherkellner 2 had a singular way of greet¬ 
ing all stylish comers: “Ah, my fine sir, my fine ladies, 
a table for six—eight? Here, Johann, make the Herr 
Graf 3 at home!” and he removed the cloaks and gath¬ 
ered as many waiters as possible with signals right and 
left. It was a commercial application of the adjective 
gemiithlich —a natural attitude with the Viennese who 
extend hospitality among all classes, and in this in¬ 
stance played for an excellent tip. . . . The waiters 
slid away, having recognized the u Herr Graf } as a 
somebody. The first on the ground remained, dusting 
with his napkin before the guests, lifting the coats and 
reading the names of the gentlemen in their inside coat 
pockets. If the label were that of a fashionable tailor, 
further attention. . . . 

“Ah, Mr. von Schmidt, how are you this evening?” 
says the sly duster with the napkin—“What can I 
bring the ladies, Herr Baron? a little caviar . . .Cha¬ 
teau Yquem or Chateau Lafitte? ...” 

^cebird Cafe, the best in the Volksprater. 

2 head waiter. 

3Sir Count, your excellency. 



48 Merry-Go-Round 

The Eisvogel was equipped with a ladies’ stringed 
orchestra. 

Across the street was the shooting-gallery of Schani 
Huber, and beside this the Prater fire department, con¬ 
sisting of engine and hosecart for emergencies. . . . 
The concession of the merry-go-round, belonging also 
to Schani Huber, came next—a large space filled with 
little children and young grown-ups to whom the whirl¬ 
ing carriages and horses and elephants were a constant 
amusement. . . . An organ played here and the at¬ 
traction announced: 

“SCHANI HUBER’S WELTBERUMTES RING- 
ELS PEIL—Z UM CALAFA T TI.” 1 2 

Merry-go-rounds were not invented solely for chil¬ 
dren. In the beginning they had another significance 
which still holds good among the middle-classes . . . 

“Das Leben ist ein Ringelspiel, da wird oft manchem 
bang, 

Dem einem ist zu kurz die Tour, dem anderen zu 
lang 

Beside this story of life in allegory, was the meaning 
the wooden horses held for the riders who imitated, 
with some degree of imagination, their betters on the 
corso —who rode, striking the inanimate flanks of the 
mechanical steed with a thin bamboo cane and thought 
themselves actually for the moment one of the wealthy 
class; who sat in the gaudy imitation carriages, raised 
their parasols and bowed right and left as the turn¬ 
table sped around. . . . For this class of people, Sun¬ 
day is their make-believe day; the balance of the week 
is work, small wages and poverty. They look upon 
their more fortunate brothers and sisters in the park, 

1 Schani Huber’s World Famous Merry-Go-Round, a la Calafatti_ 

the inventor. 

2 “Life is a merry-go-round of joys, of tears, of song, 

To one the trip is oft too short, another one too long!” 



The Prater 


49 


on the Hauptallee, with envy . . . they despair of ever 
being in a fine carriage or upon a real horse, cantering 
along as if each day brought further pleasure and no 
drudgery. . . . 

The shooting-gallery the same. The emperor went 
auf die Jagd . . rich men went hunting on game 
preserves . . . the poor, never. They placed an air- 
rifle in the gallery to shoulder and shot wooden 
ducks. . . . 

Before the merry-go-round by the entrance a dummy 
stood, having purple, swollen cheeks, badly worn out 
and scuffed—the Kraftm as chine 1 , for the purpose of 
testing the strength of those who had a superabundance 
on the Prater—who donned a boxing-glove and struck 
with full force this poor battered object and registered 
the strength of the blow on the scale behind. . . . 

Schani Huber owned this instrument also. If he 
had placed it, or several, before the midnight cafes in 
Vienna, it is possible many crimes, committed by cus¬ 
tomers badly liquored, would have been avoided, as the 
Kraftmaschine absorbs the surplus energy of young 
drunkards and fools. . . . 

Huber, a rotund man with bearded face and suave 
exterior, at heart a villain, was his own spieler: 

“JenTmen, here’s your prize Herkalees masheen! 
Meshur your strength, watcha good for, watcha lift, 
watcha push . . . how hard k’n y’ hit? . . . three 
cents, a nothin’, a nothin’!” 

He flicked a thin cane he carried into the face of the 
Kraftmaschine. When business was poor he com¬ 
menced to guy the giggling girls over the instrument. 
He turned them to his merry-go-round— 

“H’lo sweetie! ’ave-a-ride? . . . nice white horse 
just waitin’ f’ you . . . ’ave-a-carridge? set in a gon- 
doola, V’neshun gondoola? . . . c’m on, little one, 


Strength machine. 



50 


Merry-Go-Round 


get y’ tickets in the booth, five c’nts, only five c’nts—• 
best ride in the place! Here ’s y’ Karrusell, same ol’ 
Karrusell —h’lo sweetie, c’m on, you there, kid—s’m 
sweet kid, aintcha ? . . . ” 

He kept the spiel going. He kept the merry-go- 
round turning. His wife, of a different calibre, sat in 
the ticket booth and tore off the five cent rides from a 
roll. Weary, she was forced to hear his constant drivel, 
see him patronise girls and women of all ages. He 

oogled them all.He not infrequently patted 

one on the shoulder and took her hand—familiarities 
giggled over and accepted with coy looks and immediate 
patronage of the merry-go-round, as if he made pres¬ 
ents of rides, which he never did. . . . 

Schani Huber was a hard character—one of those 
hard ones to get on with. The Volksprater disliked 
him. His nearest concessionaire, a Mrs. Rossreiter, 
who exhibited herself for her stoutness and had also a 
Punch and Judy theatre, was separated from the Huber 
booths by a narrow alley leading to the Prater park in 
the rear of the street. . . . She wished this alley 
were wider—that it might be the trotting-course, for 
instance, which was a hundred feet across—only that 
Huber should be that much farther away. 

She even thought at one time of making a change 
and taking another location far up and across the 
street, only the sad face of Marianka Huber softened 
her heart, and the child playing the grind-organ of the 
Ringelspiel, whose face was also solemn, prematurely 
haggard, and who loved her. . . . For their sakes 
she remained. But the fat lady, formerly belonging to 
a circus, who had saved her money and was able to 
be a concession owner and employ two people now, 
often felt herself befouled by his inanities. 

He abused his wife. The whole Prater knew it. 
His organ-grinder, the child of seventeen that took the 
tickets of the merry-go-round, plagued by his atten- 



The Prater 


51 


tions, unwelcome and unwholesome, received a cuff 
after a caress, neither earned, both most repugnant and 
repellant. . . . 

Agnes Urban, the child, had been in his employ for 
one season—the one before. She was forced to do this. 
Her father, the manipulator of the Punch and Judy 
theatre under Mrs. Rossreiter, was, unfortunately, 
that calibre of man who is always good, always willing, 
but belongs to the down-and-outs and can never get his 
feet sufficiently under him to support wife and child. 
. . . Thus Agnes, a mere thin wisp of beautiful girl¬ 
hood, stunted in opportunity and faced by the blank 
wall of poverty, took up her work at Huber’s . . . 
hour by hour she turned the grind-organ, always send¬ 
ing forth old tunes and new, sounding alike. Never 
smiled, except it was at Boniface. Boniface was the 
monkey at Rossreiter’s, the companion of Bartholo¬ 
mew. Bartholomew Gruber was the hunchback, he 
spieled at Rossreiter’s. 

Rossreiter’s concession was her haven. Sylvester 
Urban manipulated the theatre. She pitied him— 
pitied her father ... he was so capable in her eyes 
and held so menial a position. 

Agnes’ mother was an invalid. Only this was neces¬ 
sary to add to the squalor of the family—that the 
mother should be an invalid, lying on a mattress, dying 
of consumption. Because to the poor it is squalid to 
be sick. Only the rich can afford the romance of weak¬ 
ness; only to the financially able can doctors be em¬ 
ployed and nurses kept on salary. . . . Mrs. Urban 
never was waited on by a nurse; her only doctor was 
the charity doctor who charged fifty cents for spending 
four minutes upstairs above the Rossreiter concession 
in a wretched room, devoid of sunlight, dingy, small, 
ill-smelling. ... 

Agnes lived in this room—in her own little corner. 
Sylvester lived here, disconsolate, sobbing over the in- 


52 


Merry-Go-Round 


valid. A single window looked into the Prater park 
where the chestnut trees bloomed and occasionally a 
bird sang. Some flew overhead—large birds, with out¬ 
stretched wings like vultures, that make people shiver 1 

So they looked to the young woman. But they were 
only food-scavengers and flew in and out, not around, 
looking for leavings on the Wurstelprater. 

Huber lived above his concession. Above the nar¬ 
row alley the rooms faced each other, looking into one 
another’s four walls like the dingy frame of a manhole 
with soiled curtains on the windows. . . . Huber had 
one room, Marianka another, connecting,—it was a 
little apartment and much better kept than Sylvester’s 
one room. . . . The owner of the merry-go-round 
could have afforded even more, but he pinched at home 
in order to squander abroad. He threw out money 
when he was in a lively humour, but it was never on his 
wife. It was on some girl who caught his fancy and 
was shrewd and calculating; she got his money and 
laughed in his stupid, enamoured face. . . . 

Yes. Vienna . . . old . . . gray . . . historical . . .the 
town of lust of life, of hysterical extremes of joys and 
sorrows—was the merry-go-round ... Joy in sor¬ 
row, laughter on the lips and chill at the heart! 

Who saw into the upper floors of the Wurstelprater? 

Only the birds with outstretched wings, like vultures, 
that flew in and out, or around? looking for—what? 

The Prater is the pleasure park of all Vienna. . 


VII 


NIGHT FOLLOWING MORNING 

In the Volksprater is a ferris-wheel which can be 
seen at a long distance. This Riesenrad 1 is a sort of 
electric torch which attracts the eye from all corners. 

Franzl, Nicki and Rudi, disappointed at the failure 
of Elvira’s party, which was to have the full immersion 
of Gretel in a bath of champagne, could not very well 
go home and sit before the fireside. Young cavalry¬ 
men are not attuned that way. They have a feverish 
desire and must be always on the go. 

After studying pro and con, it was at last decided— 
the spring being in the blood and the Riesenrad revolv¬ 
ing slowly in the far distance over the Aspernbriicke, 
to sally to the Praterstern 2 , and thither to the Eisvogel 
cafe. 

This is a something that gets under the skin: to sit 
in a wine hall and drink green wine in April 1 

Every Wiener 3 feels it ... he has to answer the 
call like nesting-time to the birds. . . . 

But the party consisted of five at the Eisvogel. 
Gretel would not, or did not, have the inclination, so 
Franzl tried to absent himself also. 

“Four or six—but five?” he objected weakly. 

Fanny, who had a lisp, for once took the lead herself: 

“Leths make him thtay! Don’t you wanna thtay? 
. . . pleath ...” she placed her hand on his, 
looking into his eyes appealingly. 

His comrades kicked his shins under the table. 

1 giant wheel with suspending cars for passengers. 

Entrance to Prater where many streets come together, has statue 
of Adm. Tegetthoff. 

*a citizen of Wien—Vienna. 

53 



54 Merry-Go-Round 

Franzl made up his mind, on the strength of this—to 
stay. 

The officers were again in civilian dress. This was 
the reason: 

“I’m an engaged man,” said Franzl, “I can’t be seen 
in public—” 

“Without-?” 

“Exactly.” 

That was the way it had been decided. Now he or¬ 
dered wine and cucumber salad . . . breaded chicken 
. . . they looked about and gave generous tips and 
wore the evening on. 

Presently it began to be very tiresome making end¬ 
less conversation. Only Bohemian artists or servant 
girls who are ranting at their mistresses behind their 
backs, can do this. . . . Music from the Panoptikum 1 
and tinpan pianos before the concessions floated through 
the air. Bells jangled from a dozen directions; the 
rushing sound of the Rutschbahn 2 , an American inven¬ 
tion, came in the Eisvogel like thunder repeated con¬ 
stantly! There were cries and hoarse voices mingled, 
the miniature locomotive shrieking,—all those sounds 
which herald a midway ... all the smells, sights . . . 
shooting from the gallery and the clang of the gong 
from a bull’s-eye! . . . 

The ladies’ orchestra, strumming briskly, in vain 
could not overcome sound multiplied and thrown back 
and forth so many times. 

However above a midway, riff-raff and so forth, 
Count von Hohenegg, Count von Uebermut and Baron 
von Leichtsinn felt, they could not deny the sound of 
revelry. . . . 

They looked at one another. 

“Ooh, leths take in a merry-go-round . . . and a 
Punth and Judy thow!” 


1 wax figure emporium, 

^roller coaster. 




Night Following Morning 


55 


Fanny, clapping her hands, voiced the spirit of all. 

“Yes . . . leths ...” said Franzl, mocking her. 

They started out arm in arm into the swarm of sound 
and bedlam of humanity that eddied them about and 
crushed and crowded them from booth to booth. Here 
was the street-car, switching at the station and turning 
trolley for the city. The dwarf sang out his “Kassa 1 
Kassa ! Kassa ! Kass’! Kass’! Kass’! Lotsa liddle 
dwarfs! sister dwarf . . . brother dwar—” They 
lost the rest . . . The mountain giant with several 
medals from a Chicago show, and fortune-tellers and 
acrobats, shouting from every platform and performing 
tricks,—Astarte, the Gasthaus Garten— ... at last 
they were before the shooting-gallery and the gong rang 
out, announcing a hit! 

“Shoot!” said Mitzerl, speaking loud to make her¬ 
self heard. 

“What?” 

“You, Franzl . . . shoot in the gallery!” 

The Count von Hohenegg, who went with the em¬ 
peror auf die Jagd in the Tyrol, took air-gun to shoul¬ 
der in the Volksprater and obediently aimed at a clay 
heart. 

Bang! 

He hit it. 

“Ooh, thee that! he hit it!” screamed Fanny. 

Bang! 

He hit a second ... a third ... a fourth. . . . 

The row of hearts succumbed one after the other. 
. . . The attendant, whose admiration was given 
grudgingly, came with two pasteboard boxes at the end 
of the shooting and presented them to Franzl as 
premiums for his line of cracked hearts: 

“Der Herr Graf kann aber schiessen! der Mann 
ist kein Sontagsjdger 1 ...” He addressed him as 


1 “The count knows how to shoot ... he is no Sunday hunter.’ 



56 


Merry-Go-Round 


count because he was well-dressed. . . . On Rudi’s 
and Nicki’s breasts, for their marksmanship, he placed 
a small medal . . . and the party left, going past the fire 
department and into the concession marked: “SCHAN1 
HUBER’S JVELTBERUHMTES RINGELSPIEL 
—ZUM CALAFATTI.” . . . 

“Ooh, here ’th the merry-go-round!” cried Fanny. 

It was in full swing, soldiers and children were 
riding the horses, servant girls sat in the carriages; 
on a caparisoned elephant a stout wet-nurse displayed 
her legs clear up to the thighs, enormous, round and 
fat . . . 

Schani Huber stood before his platform, bamboo 
cane in hand, the crowd swarming around him— 

“’Ave-a-ride . . . ’ave-a-ride . . . only five c’nts— 
getcha tickets in the booth! Karrusell, same ol’ Kar- 
rusell —h’lo sweetie, c’m on, you there, kid . . . ’ave- 
a-ride? ...” He was teasing the young servant- 
girls, striking them on the legs with his cane . . . 
spitting, letting out long shots of tobacco juice. . . . 
“Oooh you babee-doll, c’m on, c’m on, nice white horse 
just waitin’ f’ you! . . . ” 

When he spied Franzl and the party from the Eis* 
vogel, his face took on its broadest smile. He made 
them a bow and looked with some respect at the girls’ 
nice clothes and gold chatelaine that Mitzerl carried— 
“Tick’ts in the booth, right this way ...” Franzl 
bought five tickets from Marianka, the sad-eyed woman 
in the booth, and they waited, watching the hawkers 
passing with lemonade and candies to which the dust 
was sticking and had to be blown off, and the wagons 
with sausages steaming in huge caldrons. . . . Several 
small children, running around under the feet of the 
crowd, begged for a penny and sometimes got it . . . 
sometimes a cake . . . 

The merry-go-round came to a stop. Mitzie took 
an elephant, “Ooh gee, you’ll think you are on an 


Night Following Morning 


57 


oasis! Sit next to me, Franzl . . . Fanny, you sit on 
a horse!” 

“I don’ want to . . . I’ll thit in a carriage 1” 

“Gwan! nobuddy sits in a carriage!” shouted a small 
boy in her ear; “move up . . . take a horse!” . . . 

Fanny decided on the horse but insisted that Franzl 
hold her on it, to which Nicki objected, and with one 
argument and another the merry-go-round was about to 
start when the ticket-girl came to them for the slips of 
pasteboard bought from Marianka’s roll. . . . 

“Go to him,” Mitzerl waved her over to Franzl; 
Fanny did the same. . . . Nicki, looking closely at 
Agnes’ pathetic and beautiful face, nudged Rudi. . . . 
“Give a look!” and he pulled down the corners of his 
mouth and lifted his eyebrows, expressive of astonish¬ 
ment. . . . “Not so bad ... eh, what? psst, 
Franzl!” . . . 

Franzl, about to give up his tickets, looked the way 
his comrade specified—into the face of Agnes Urban. 
He saw two eyes set wide apart in a comely way. The 
hair was dark and drawn down closely around the face, 
which, if it had been allowed to grow animated, he 
decided, would have made a strikingly attractive pic¬ 
ture. She had, in fact, just heard some disconcerting 
news about the condition of her mother through Syl¬ 
vester, who left his post and went up above Rossreiter’s 
a few moments before, and her cheeks were very pale. 
She had a hopeless expression about her drooping lids, 
her fine nose also twitched as if she were suppressing a 
desire to cry . . . the mouth was refined and shy, eye¬ 
lashes dark and long and curved like a baby’s. . . . 
She was wearing a wash-dress of light material with a 
short jacket over, originally dark blue but now a shabby 
brownish-green. . . . 

Franzl still held the tickets, which were folded, in 
his hand. As she reached out for them, he allowed 
his hand to close over hers and gave her a further, 


58 


Merry-Go-R ound 


penetrating look. Then, smiling broadly, he released 
them and watched her smile ever so faintly at this exhi¬ 
bition of friendliness, one of the few she had received 
in her life. . . . She looked over at Huber, who 

had not budged from the ticket booth after taking 
Franzl there and who awaited, as usual, the sign of 
her last collection and leaving of the merry-go-round, 
to start the machinery. Huber frowned, annoyed by 
the delay. He gave her a harsh signal—“Get down, 
cut it out and let those guys alone! What in the hell 
do you think you’re doing?” That was the ugly ex¬ 
pression on his face. 

She tore the tickets in two, gave Franzl the stubs, 
and ran off the platform before he could speak with 
her. She reached the grind-organ and threw the bits 
of pasteboard in her hand into a little box fastened 
over the organ handle . . . and, as she put her hand 
on the crank, Huber blew the starting whistle. Slowly 
the merry-go-round started to revolve. The horses 
began to go up and down, sliding on poles, the car¬ 
riages swept, one after the other, full of passengers, 
about the circle, passing the grind-organ and the soli¬ 
tary girl driving music from the wizened box. . . . 

Franzl followed her with his eyes, her figure, even 
less than the medium height, was slender almost to the 
point of emaciation. . . . Around and around went 
the Karrusell. Huber was watching him as intently as 
he watched the girl ... he met his eyes on every 
trip—vindictive, stealthy eyes. . . . He tried to 

look unconcerned, the expression of the girl haunted 
him. . . . 

What had this man to do with her ? It looked almost 
as if he were watching him because he watched her! 

This is the best way to arouse the interest of anyone 
—to afford them curiosity. Franzl was a cavalryman 
and had no patience with a look from an underling. 
For far less than this insolence they struck them down 


Night Following Morning 


59 


in Vienna! He felt his blood mounting against Huber 
as he told himself, for this look, he would be twice as 
attentive to the girl . . . besides, she was a nice 

little thing, had beautiful eyes. Her mouth looked 
sweet, like a little robin’s, ready to be kissed. He even 
imagined himself kissing it. . . . 

Having still in his possession the two packages from 
the shooting-gallery, he opened them and perceived— 
as he expected—that they contained each a doll, the 
usual reward in a shooting-gallery. One was a little 
soldier, the other a girl doll. And he resolved then 
and there to give the little soldier doll to the girl who 
turned the grind-organ—to spite that bearded rotter 
with the dirty look! Also, because he felt that way— 
like striking up an acquaintance with her. 

Who was she? He didn’t know. An urchin, some 
petty tradesman’s daughter; but she had a sweet mod¬ 
esty that recommended itself, something not hitherto 
experienced in women by the Count von Hohenegg at 
court or cafe. . . . He resolved to dismount at the 
first moment and give her the doll. 

Meanwhile Huber had approached Agnes- 

“Say, here, that don’t go . . . that innocence of 

yours,” he snarled from the side of his mouth,—“it 
don’t go. It’s the bunk! You make goo-goo eyes at a 
feller what never done nothin’ for you at any time . . . 
and for me, who done everythin’ for you and that lazy 
father and whinin’ mother of yours—what do I get? 
Nothin’! You see, you’ll find out—it don’t go to pick 
up strays when you got a friend like me, Agnes. . . . 

Now, you see here, you look out for me—no foolin’— 
understand?” 

He shook his bamboo cane directly under her nose, 
he spat viciously—“Let ’im alone, I say!” 

She did not respond. A tear, which had been dis¬ 
engaging itself slowly from her lid, now slipped down 
her pallid cheek. . . . Franzl, swinging around in 



60 


M erry-Go-Routid 


the carriage, saw her turn away. She hung her head, 
attempting to brush something from her face with her 
free hand. . . . He wondered what was the matter 
and had a good notion to jump from the platform, 
whirling as it was! What had the brute with the stick 
to say to the girl that was so damned important? 

Besides Franzl, one other watched this byplay in the 
Prater, who sat in the ticket booth. It was Marianka 
Huber, she saw something that escaped him: Huber’s 
sensuous way of studying his employee ... his 
narrow, calculating look going over her frail figure, 
appraising it. Marianka suffered intensely from these 
callous displays before her eyes. . . . 

But the Karrusell had gone around too many times 
already. Huber blew his whistle. 

“Oooh, lethe go around again!” cried Fanny. “I 
haven’t had half enough! . . . make ’em go round 

again, Mitthie . . . gettup! . . . gettup!” She 
struck the wooden flank of the white horse with Nicki’s 
cane, borrowed for the occasion. “He’th tho eathy 
ridin’. . . .” 

“Sure we’ll go again . . . get the tickets, Franzl!” 

Franzl dismounted in haste to get them. When the 
merry-go-round started he did not ride, but gave the 
tickets into Agnes’ hand and followed her to the box 
where she dropped them. 

Much commotion had taken place, many riders 
mounted and dismounted. . . . Huber’s infernal 

whistle blew. . . . 

“See here,” began Franzl, “do you have to grind 
that organ eternally? What do you get out of it, may 
I ask?” He had not intended to say this, but was led 
astray by the girl’s mounting embarrassment. . . . 

“I—I never thought of finding anything as beautiful 
as you down here. . . .” His voice commenced to 
drop into a lower key. 

“Didja come all the way down here t’tell me that?” 


Night Following Morning 


61 


“No, but as I’m here and believe it, I’m telling you 
so,” he retorted, her flippancy taking him at once, it 
was so opposed to her modest exterior. 

She was trying to read his expression- 

“You’re kiddin’ me . . 

“I’m dead in earnest, you’re a mighty pretty girl.” 

“Gee, that so? You flatter like a lieutenant . . 
you look like a swell . . . are you?” 

“What makes you think so?” 

“I dunno.” She looked him over again, grinding 
the organ. ... “I just thought so . . . you 

don’t do any work with your hands, they’re too white!” 

Franzl found some amusement in inspecting his 
hands. 

“I suppose you would like me better if I were a 
lieutenant?” 

“Not so. I don’t like soldiers . . . father says 

all they do is get girls into trouble. . . .” 

“Er,—is your father here?” 

“He is workin’ the Punch and Judy,” she tossed her 
head in the direction of Rossreiter’s. . . . “He says 
soldiers ain’t good for anything . . . they live off 

our hard-earned money and think that we are dirt. 
»> 

“Well, to tell the truth, I’m not a soldier,” Franzl 
lied adroitly,—“I’m a very peaceful man.” 

A more kindly expression came at once into her eyes. 
“Then, what are you doin’ ?” 

“Guess?” 

She stood off to inspect him, but was restrained by 
her duty to the organ. Automatically Franzl felt him¬ 
self in the gayest of moods ... he dropped his 
hand on hers, and turned the crank in common with 
her; then she withdrew her hand and he was grinding it 
all alone! 

“You’re—you’re,” said Agnes, “a wine agent!” 

“Ha-ha-hahaha!” 



62 


Merry-Go-Round 


“You tell me!” 

“Well-” 

“Yes-” 

He looked down at his necktie, an inspiration came 
to him. 

“I—I’m—a necktie salesman,” he said, thinking this 
was a huge joke. . . . 

“A necktie salesman?” 

“Uh-huh . . . now tell me, what’s your name?” 

“Agnes . . . Urban. . . 

“Agnes. I like that!” 

“What’s yours?” 

“Mine is Franz—Meier. Just call me Franz. . . .” 

“I like yours, too,” she admitted. 

“Tell me, Agnes, do you ever have a day off? I 
mean, can you get away from here?” 

“No . . . my mother is very sick, and when I am 
not working I am with her.” 

“That’s too bad . . . but—how can I see you 

again?” 

“They haven’t stopped the bus-line down here . . . 
have they?” 

“Would you want me to come?” 

“I don’t care,” she responded flippantly, but amelio¬ 
rated it—“I mean ... I don’t mind. . . .” 

Franzl sighed— 

“Hum, well, that’s better. And look here, I’ve got 
something for you—he’s a soldier. I won him in the 
shooting gallery . . . does he look like a swell?” 

“For me!” 

“For you . . .” 

Ecstatically she clasped the doll. . . . 

During this time Huber had been beside himself 
with rage. He struck out in all directions with his 
stick, his beard seemed to stand on end from his chin. 
When the whistle had blown, Franzl was still grinding 
the organ. ... 




Night Following Morning 


63 


He heard Fanny’s voice— 

“We thould thertainly let theth people know what a 
dithtinguished man they had juth now for a muthi- 
thian. . . 

He dropped the handle at once, angered, turning to 
her— 

“All right, are you ready? Have you people had 
all the ride you want?” He slipped his arm through 
Fanny’s: “Come, don’t say anything. I just told the 
girl I was a necktie salesman ... it would spoil 
her little romance at the very start. . . 

They joined the others. 

“He told her he wath a necktie thalthman,” giggled 
Fanny. 

“You didn’t, Franzl?” 

“What a little devil!” exclaimed Nicki. “Look, this 
fellow has evidently something to say to you.” 

It was Huber, so beside himself still that no effort 
of will could calm him. . . . “Look here . . . 

come here . . . die Graftmasheena, see —grad so 

wie das verdamte ding ... so ver I de Lett 9 ha - 
ndele de ma inde Wag koma. . . .’ n He threw him¬ 
self at the Kraftm as chine and aimed a fearful blow at 
the empurpled cheek! . . . i( Grad so . . . und 

so . . . und so. . . .” 


Very bad slang for “As I treat this machine, so I treat anyone who 
comes in my way . . . ju6t so and so and so!” 



VIII 


THE FAT LADY 

When Franzl chose the occupation of necktie sales¬ 
man, it came to him as an inspiration. Such a petty 
tradesman’s business was the lowest next to actual day 
labour. If he intended to win the affection of a girl 
like Agnes, he could not have chosen two more adroit 
means—occupation and the present of a little soldier 
doll to the girl. She never had a present from anyone 
before. This young man was handsome and friendly 
. . . and he gave her a present! 

No sooner had the party from the merry-go-round 
departed, than Huber, having shown Franzl and his 
friends what to expect from him if they again came into 
the concession, by hammering the Kraftmaschine, 
strode with his large, clumsy boots to Agnes, still grind¬ 
ing at the organ. . . . 

“You seen what I done to your friend? I showed 
’im, the dirty cuss . . . I’ll hammer the stuffin’s 

outta him if he ever shows up ’round here. Where 
th’ hell d’you think you are, anyway, pullin’ such raw 
stuff . . . cuttin’ up and showin’ your best smile to 

them kind? Looky here, Agnes, you don’t know when 
you gotta friend. . . . I’ll be damned, he comes 
’round here, hands you a laugh—wotcha got there?” 

He perceived the box Franzl had left, which the 
child was at this instant trying to cover with her 
body to keep it out of sight, holding it behind her 
against the organ. . . . 

“Gimme that!” 

He grabbed the box and tore the cover off. Seeing 
the doll inside, he ripped it out of the covering with an 

64 


The Fat Lady 65 

oath, tossed it to the floor and commenced to mutilate 
it. Agnes could not repress her tears. . . . 

“Wotcha cryin’ for? Say, wotcha mean cryin’ over 
a thing like that?” With this he came to her, using 
his most wheedling tones—“If you was good to me, 
now—well, there ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you, 
you know that . . . you’re such a purtee girl now. 

. . He tried to stroke her hair, but she recoiled 

from him. The crowd was thinning, but still swarmed 
about them . . . she looked around like a hunted 

pheasant. . . . “C’mon now, don’t be babyish . . . 
be a good—liddle—girl. . . .” Huber laughed 

heartily and walked away, swinging his stick. When 
his back was turned, she leapt forward into the crowd, 
gathering up the doll, a crumpled mass, a thing without 
shape, and the best part of one cheek crushed into a 
pulp. She lifted it from the floor, crooning over it, 
patting and caressing it. . . . 

Was this not a present? Had it not been brought 
in friendliness to recall to her mind vividly the young 
man who was a necktie salesman, who had made her 
this present? 

Directly this young man had gone with his party, he 
stood before the neighboring concession— “ROSS- 
REITER’S WUNDERSALON . . .DIRECT 
FROM PARIS ” 

This wonder palace consisted of the fat lady herself, 
her Punch and Judy theatre, an armless and legless 
woman, and several other sensations. . . . 

The barker was just bringing out for the seventy- 
fourth time that evening: “Ladies and gentlemen, walk 
right in . . . the greatest performance ever seen 

begins right now . . . this—is the lady without 

lower body and without arms . . . don’t push. 
>> 

But there was no one pushing. Huber stood right 
there, having come over, after tormenting Agnes, to 


66 


Merry-Go-Round 


steal away what customers were in his rival’s booth. 
This was a method he pursued regularly. He 
harangued them, drew them over to his own conces¬ 
sion, using any means to anger the fat lady and her 
clown, Bartholomew Gruber, the hunchback, the Aus- 
rufer. 1 . . . 

He commenced again: “This is Boniface, the 
famous young orang-utang . . . direct from the jungle of 
Africa. . . The monkey took off his hat—a lib¬ 

erty cap—three times, bowing from his chain to the 
stray visitors. He dug his paw into a barrelful of nuts 
and scattered them to the spectators. . . . “From 

these two wonders you can guess what you will see in¬ 
side ! Please don’t push . . . there is a place for 

everyone. . . .” 

Scarcely had he said this when Huber pushed to the 
front— 

“Who the hell wants to see your show?” he shouted. 
“Nobody! All these ladies and gentlemen want to ride 
on Huber’s famous merry-go-round. . . .” 

The fat lady intervened her bulk: “Not so . . . 

not so! They want to stay right here—you filthy pig! 
you ox!” . . . She launched herself at him and 

started to beat him with her fists, pudgy and soft, but 
backed up by a pair of flashing beady eyes surrounded 
in her face with fat. . . . “Get out—get out!” 

They fought together, slapping each other’s faces. . . . 

Meanwhile the monkey liberated himself from his 
hook on the wall where he was fastened by a chain, 
and, drawing the chain after him, started to walk away 
on his hind feet. . . . 

“Stop him! Come back . . . don’t you see, he is 
running away?” This was shouted by the armless and 
legless lady from her pedestal. . . “he has stolen 


*man who calls out from a concession, a barker. 



The Fat Lady 


67 


the nuts . . . Boniface! Boniface! come back 

here!” 

But, to her anxiety, nobody pursued him. 

Franzl and the Eisvogel party, standing far out on 
the Volksprater, did not pursue him because he went 
in the opposite direction, crawling under an elevated 
platform and disappearing into the alleyway which 
separated his booth from Huber’s, adjoining. . . . 

“Ooh,” said Fanny, losing track of him, and looking 
at the woman without lower body—“thee this poor 
woman . . . thee hath no legth or no armth . . . 
ithn’t it pathetic?” 

Franzl commenced to laugh, “I’ll wager you she has 
a husband and five kids!” . . . 

Fanny was shocked. 

“Count, you have no thympathy for anyone . . . 

do you believe in anything exthept yourthelf?” . . . 

“Not much,” admitted Franzl; still, he had the girl 
doll in his hand, and it made him laugh at himself . . . 
if he had given it to the little organ-grinder now, to 
keep with the other, the mate. . . . But he kept it 

for himself. 

When Boniface went out on his pilgrimage, he 
strode directly into the Huber booth where Agnes was 
standing, and approached her from the back. He was 
perfectly tame with anyone who knew him, and placed 
his brown paw on her hand, where it was twisting the 
organ handle, which gave her an unaccustomed shock! 
First of all she thought it was Franzl, and then she 
thought it was Huber,—but it was only the little furry 
paw of the animal, and she commenced to play with 
him, and then allowed him to turn the handle to give 
her relief. Quite a crowd gathered. Huber returned— 

“Well, I’ll be damned! Get outta here!” he started 
blaspheming—“you dam’ brute, get out!” He com¬ 
menced to strike the orang-utang with his stick, who 


68 


Merry-Go-Round 


lunged at him . . . but, fortunately for the pro¬ 

prietor of the Ringelspiel, he was still on his chain, 
trailing behind him, and Agnes caught him up by it 
and held him away from Huber. 

“Don’t anger him,” she cried, “don’t—look out!” 

“I’ll kill him!” 

“He’ll kill you!” 

“Haw-haw-haw!” he shouted. 

“But I can’t hold him!” 

“Well, let’im go. . . 

She dared not do this, as the savage little fellow, 
snarling at his enemy, bared his fangs, and would have 
wrapped himself around the throat of the man, biting 
him and strangling his life out with his thin powerful 
arms. . . . 

At precisely the moment when she was exhausted and 
would have let Boniface fly, both Bartholomew and the 
fat woman pounced upon him. 

“You’ll get it for this, Schani Huber,” she screamed 
—“we’ll see to it!” 

“Damn you, shut up!” he retorted. 

“Shut up!” 

“Shut up!” 

“Whyn’t you let ’im go?” bawled Huber to Agnes. 
“I woulda killed ’im! See here, you, Gruber, I wanna 
tell you—if that dirty monkey of yours comes over 
again, I’ll murder ’im. . . 

“He’ll murder you!” 

“Oh, will ’e?” . . . 

“Look out. I’m tellin’ you. . . The hunch¬ 

back gave Agnes an ominous signal with his hand. He 
loved her. He had often told her so; but without some 
means, he knew—crippled body but decent soul that he 
was,—that he had no chance on the Prater with Agnes. 
Even an urchin can choose and reject—it is the law of 
marriage. . . . He gambled and staked all he could 
scrape from his wages at Rossreiter’s on his weekly 


The Fat Lady 69 

shots. He lost, but staked again. Some day he would 
win, and with money—Agnes. . . . The lottery is a 
government institution . . . eminently fair. . . . 


IX 


THE LIGHT GOES OUT 

Two days later Agnes stood at the grind-organ. It 
was a damp, overcast day, but shortly cleared off, leav¬ 
ing a warm, oppressive night very much ahead of the 
season. It seemed almost like July. It was near the 
beginning of May. 

Up in the room of the Urbans, squalid, ill-furnished, 
on the mattress in the brightest corner, which was dim, 
Ursula Urban was lying, her eyes closed, her lips feebly 
compressed. . . . Falling night blanketed out mer¬ 

cifully the poor table, two chairs, a camel-back trunk 
and ragged carpet bag. . . . Smoke was filling the 
room from a little stove on which some porridge was 
cooking . . . the window was slightly open, the 

smoke was curling out. The single blanket covering 
the invalid had turned a colour, neither gray nor blue, 
but a mixture of both, that made it look faded like the 
mother, thin, battered by ill, hard usage and much 
adversity. . . . 

“Sylvester . . .” said the invalid. There was no¬ 
body in the room. “Sylvester . . .” a trifle louder 

. . . but her voice broke, she started to cough and 

coughed a full moment without stopping—the rasping, 
hollow sound made by broken chests and lungs eaten 
by a progressive germ to skeleton, cavity-walled thin¬ 
ness. . . The X-ray of a physician shows only red, 

striped fibres holding together through adhesive endur¬ 
ance, ready to decay, and barely able to contain suffi¬ 
cient of the air drawn in by the sufferer to give him or 
her life and circulate the blood. . . . 

Presently the door opened and Sylvester came in. 

“I have been calling you. . . 

70 


The Light Goes Out 


71 


He dropped to his knees beside the mattress. 

“What is it?” 

“I have been calling—” she spoke so faintly, he put 
his ear close to her lips and the weak, hot breath issued 
on to his cheek. “I have been calling—I dreamed . . . 
Sylvester, listen ... it won’t be long, I’ll be gone. 

. . . I know, tomorrow, today—maybe-” A 

spasm came over his face. . . . “No, no,’’ she said 

this more briskly, “don’t worry, only listen ... it 
—it doesn’t matter, only—I don’t want to worry you, 
I had a dream. I saw Boniface—the little monkey,— 
it was such a peculiar dream ... he was big, like a 
giant, and so strong, and he was running after Aggie, 
he caught her and then he commenced to squeeze her. 
. . . I think maybe he’s going to kill her . . . 
lookout!” . . . 

Sylvester forced himself to smile, he pressed her 
hand and reassured her like a child— 

“Don’t think such foolish things, mother; Boniface 
is a little fellow and perfectly harmless. If anything, 
he would play with her . . . but hurt her—never.” 

“But he had hair on his arms . . .” 

“He has—but that’s nothing. All monkeys have 
hair.” 

“Thin hair?” 

“Not exactly thin. They have to keep warm. Are 
you warm? . . . very comfortable? Don’t take it 

to heart, such things don’t happen. . . .” 

He rose from the floor and looked after the por¬ 
ridge. 

“But the dream was so real!” 

“What happened—did he get her? He was grind¬ 
ing the organ for her two nights back. She told you 
that—maybe it’s the reason you dreamed about 
him. . . .” 

“. . . . It made me wake up. ... I was all 


/ 



72 Merry-Go-Round 

wet and frightened; my heart was beating like I was 
smothering. . . .” 

“Don’t talk at all; lay still.” 

He went to a wooden box standing on end by the 
window and divided into little compartments by boards 
nailed in at an amateur’s angle. The shelves were 
crooked, and held paper bags and one or two plates 
with the food on top covered up. A bag of dried 
plums stood among these. Sylvester took it out, put 
his hand inside, and commenced to eat the plums, gaz¬ 
ing fixedly at his wife. The bitterness that lay in his 
eyes, smouldering, was like the drab blanket cover¬ 
ing her wasted limbs. He tried to smile, swallowing 
hard, so that each effort was sent down with saliva 
from his mouth, but the pieces felt like lumps in his 
throat and his lips became dry and stiff and immov¬ 
able like a man frightened by his first sight of a scaf¬ 
fold or waiting to go to sea in a little boat on tall, 
choppy waves. . . . 

“Sylvester ... do you remember,” recom¬ 
menced the invalid, “like this, on a warm night . . . 
you, I ... we left Prague? You gave up your 
university for me. Ain’t it a shame you didn’t fin¬ 
ish? ...” 

“No,” he said with a grimace, “it was the best thing 
I ever did!” 

“To—to come to this?” 

“What of it? It’s my fault, though . . . you 

see, I never was any good. . . .” 

“You are all good. And Aggie—she takes after 
you. . . . Sylvester—promise me—” 

“—when you are gone. . . . Come, don’t talk 

that way. Always it’s the same story when people are 
lying in bed, they commence, ‘When I am gone—’ You 
are not going to go. Be cheerful, we have so much to 
live for . . . this—this is nothing. . . 

“No, you are right . . . it’s nothing. Only life 


The Light Goes Out 


73 


counts—and death. I am not afraid—no, but I want 
you to promise—” 

“What are you afraid of? that I won’t look after 
my own child? You know me better, mother. . . 

He dropped again to his knees beside her pillow, 
the light was so dim in the room he could not make 
out her features. . . . “Agnes and I are always 

together. She’s grown up and quite a lady . . . 
you don’t realise this, that she’s no more a child 
. . . that she has good sense, and some day she’ll 

marry.” 

“Yes, yes, that’s it!” Ursula struggled with the ex¬ 
citement of the thought to raise herself,—“she—she— 
it’s because she’s grown . . .” And here a fit of 

coughing overcame her, she fell back choking with the 
convulsive spasms of her illness,—“Oooh God, if I 
could only—only—” What more she had to say was 
not revealed . . . she coughed for so long a time, 
she seemed so feeble, Sylvester became distracted; he 
tried to hold her up to stop the rattling, he let her sink 
and felt her pulse ... it was almost gone. He be¬ 
came panic-stricken, but she rallied and came back to 
him. . . . 

When he finally stood up from his knees he was as 
exhausted as a man who had run ten miles. The floor 
was spinning like a circle of purple . . . blue 

shadows and red spots danced before his eyes. He put 
his hand to his head, slowly recovered, and looked 
down at his wife . . . the thought was with him: 

“It is all over; no, she will recover! . . . or, or— 

is there a God? . . . can it be possible—He—He 
could do such things ? . . .” 

The presentment remained with him when he went 
downstairs and back into the theatre of the marionettes 
a half hour later: “She will die . . . there is no 

hope. Ursula is a dead woman. Even if the doctor 
comes tonight, as he promised, it is all over . . . 


74 Merry-Go-Round 

only God can save her, and when there is a miracle it 
comes to the rich.” 

But he went to the fat woman a little later as she 
stood on the platform before the concession, exhibiting 
herself: “Only come upstairs, Mrs. Rossreiter, do, 
and see how weak she is,” he beseeched. “I know it 
will not be long . . . come quick!” 

“Poor fellow ... I know. . . .” 

“Come upstairs!” 

“Gladly. . . .” 

She left the platform and followed him up the 
wooden stairway leading to the floor opposite Huber’s, 
below which Agnes stood, eternally boxing pasteboard 
slips, turning a grind-organ that brought out old tunes 
and new, sounding alike. 

She could not leave and go upstairs. Huber did not 
allow it. As the crowds were beginning to come past 
Venedig in Wien 1 and the Gasthaus Garten, the shoot¬ 
ing gallery, fire department, business would soon pick 
up on the merry-go-round ... it was early in the 
evening. But Mrs. Rossreiter had only a moment to 
spare . . . she tip-toed into the room above and to 

the side of the invalid to see if she were awake. Ur¬ 
sula’s glazing eyes were turned to the black square of 
the solitary window, overlooking the Prater park as 
silent, as immobile as death itself. . . . 

“God help us,” murmured the comedienne under her 
breath,—“she is dying. . . 

Tears flew out of Sylvester’s eyes, his shoulders 
commenced to heave, and he lost all sense of motion. 

. . . The fat woman clutched him by the sleeve— 

“Sylvester, go get the doctor ... get Aggie or 
it will be too late!” 

The head on the pillow, looking so frigid and with¬ 
out animation, moved slowly ... the lips formed 


Venice in Vienna, a pleasure square by itself near the entrance. 



The Light Goes Out 


75 


something. Sylvester listened: “I think,” said the in¬ 
valid, “it will be all right for a little while . . . then 

—get me Aggie . . . not the doctor . . . what 

use . . 

“What does she say?” 

He was sobbing. 

“She wants Aggie?” 

He nodded his head, mutely. 

“All right . . . I go . . . say, if that skunk 

don’t let the child come up here, well, I will see—I will 
see—” 

But Huber was firm. If Ursula were not already 
dying or nearly so, what difference did it make? . . . 
another minute and another. . . . 

“You stay here!” he shouted, “nothin’ doin’ or out 
you go—you lose your job ... t’ hell with the fat 
woman! She’s a troublemaker, she only wants t’ break 
up my show! It don’t go—y’ hear me?—not with this 
crowd cornin’ in. It’s a big, warm evenin’ and they 
wants plenty of tune—swing ’er ’round, grind and shut 
up. . . . I’ll take the tickets.” He went off mut¬ 

tering—“The dam’ rotten wench, the dam’ rotten 
wench. . . .” 

“Aggie, you better go,” shouted Mrs. Rossreiter 
from her neighboring booth. 

“You stay!” he bellowed back. 

“Her mother’s dyin’!” . . . 

“Serves ’er right. Shut up, you dam’ idiot . . . 

wanna get the whole crowd scared off! See here, 
Agnes, it’s a false alarm . . . don’t you go to get- 

tin’ all tore up . . . if it comes to the real thing, 

I’m your friend . . . stay on and dry them 
» 

tears. . . . 

They were falling—into the grind-organ, onto the 
hand that turned the handle . . . from her eyes, 

her nose, she made no effort to wipe them. 

All around was laughter—the hearty chatter of the 


76 


Merry-Go-Round 


pleasure seekers, the barkers acting and dancing be¬ 
tween their spiels, the bells and horns tinkling and 
blowing, the music resounding. . . . The trolley 

coming into its station disgorged hundreds . . . the 

bus line emptied tens—dozens into the Wurstelprater. 
The evening continued so warm it reminded them of 
mid-summer ... it was overcast, and the humid 
atmosphere became stifling. . . . 

Without the lights a dark, complete oblivion would 
have fallen upon the park; without a star visible in 
the sky this threatening warmth became the thunder 
weather of July ... all felt it at once, and they 
started to tremble, looking about as a frightened audi¬ 
ence does in a theatre, for exits, for shelter in the park, 
for some comforting assurance in the sudden moist 
swelter. 

When the first rumble came they started to melt into 
the booths, under canvas . . . the lightning fled 

upon them, flashes lit the sky, and all at once, with 
the ferocity of tropical storms, it broke—the clouds 
parted and dropped a deluge of waters in the Wurstel¬ 
prater ! 

Only four minutes passed. All was deserted! 
Barkers, pleasure-seekers, acrobats, beggars disap¬ 
peared as if the hand of time had wiped them off! 
Only the giant ferris-wheel kept turning in the mid¬ 
night of waters, and the circle-swing which could not 
yet come to such an abrupt halt. . . . 

Agnes, without a thought of Providence, but gather¬ 
ing her skirt around her, ran for the stairs leading to 
Ursula’s room ... she was breathless before the 
sixth step, her feet became leaden. She could hardly 
drag them over the wooden surfaces, and her tears, 
which were so heightened by Huber’s cruelty, now fas¬ 
tened to her lids and left her dry-eyed. ... In 
great crises she could not cry. 

When she entered the room Sylvester was still on 


The Light Goes Out 


77 


his knees, the invalid breathing her last . . . she 
dropped down beside him, and laid her head on her 
mother’s bosom. . . . 

Downstairs, in the deserted Prater, a solitary dog, 
dripping wet, sat whining out into the night. . . . 


X 


MADAME ELVIRA 

The Emperor Franz-Josef held his regular audi¬ 
ences in the Hofburg once a week. . . . Two guards 
stood at the entrance of his study, one on either side 
of the door. Austria guarded the left hand side, Hun¬ 
gary the right. Guards relieved them at intervals, 
being brought by two others on each side, who retired. 

In the audience hall stood a wing-adjutant whose 
business it was to follow the programme of his imperial 
and royal master, usher in the deputations, wait on the 
exit, and bring in burghers, counts, foreign ministers. 

. . . Nobody was denied an audience with Emperor 
Franz-Josef. 

Franzl, whose duty took him to the palace mornings, 
followed this with driving in the afternoon and 
deviltry at night—when no court etiquette took him to 
balls, or an engagement with his future fiancee kept him 
from the usual round of gaieties. 

Having been in the Prater two nights before, he re¬ 
called, ere he left there, promising to be at Elvira’s 
for the bathing party two nights afterward. This was 
the night. . . . 

He had scarcely made up his mind to go when Rudi, 
coming in to take his place in the audience hall as 
Flugeladjutant , caught his ear in passing by— 

“It will be all right . . . Elvira has arranged 

everything. We shall have Fanny and Mitzerl, Lola, 
Dita, madame herself, and, of course, Gretel. The 
war minister will be there, you, I, Nicki, Eitel . . . 

it is a closed affair. . . 

“Very closed,” Franzl murmured sarcastically. He 
was getting a trifle bored with these affairs. Elvira 

78 


Madame Elvira 


79 


was a woman with shady antecedents. . . . Lola? 

Dita ? Two of her especial charges, or, in other words, 
adopted daughters, little comrades, tricksters, play¬ 
fellows. . . . She knew how to prepare a banquet 

and to provide the guests. . . . 

Elvira came from the Yamskaya Sloboda. Franzl, 
who knew her intimately and all her ways of living, 
past and present, could have been more explicit than 
he was on the evening in the Ringstrasse Cafe. . . . 
He could have said: 

‘‘She was born in Riga, where the sailors come in to 
the port of Russia, and her mother gave her away at 
an early age to an old miser of a man who married 
her but did not provide properly, so she ran away and 
eloped with a sailor. When the sailor left her, she was 
poor, thrown on the world, sixteen years of age, and 
had never had a day of schooling. ... So she went 
through some drudgery—what, nobody knew, resolved 
to get up higher in the world, and, with the brazenness 
which only ignorance can give to anybody, applied as a 
lady’s maid to a woman of fashion, and obtained the 
post. . . . 

“Seeing now what the ‘other half’ did: petty love 
affairs, little connivings with tutors and secretaries, 
meetings and drives in the park that were not alto¬ 
gether in the open . . . she learned quickly, and 

became, of course, very reckless. . . . 

“The lady travelled all over Russia. Elvira, who 
spoke German from her acquaintance in Riga, where 
much is spoken, and who understood a little French 
with which to make an appearance, went all over with 
her, from St. Petersburg to Odessa, and back and forth 
and up and down. . . . But, plot as she would to 

ascend the social scale . . . plan as she did . . . 
the environment got the best of her. . . . The sec¬ 
retary of the fashionable lady made love to her . . . 


80 Merry-Go-Round 

was discovered by his mistress, who discharged both 
him and her. . . . 

“She was in K- . . . she struggled to make a 

living, circumstances were against her, she descended 
rather than ascended the social scale, and fell into the 
Yamkas. . . . This district has been known for its 

elastic character. It was not long before she was asso¬ 
ciated with houses of all-sorts-of-repute. She learned 
the business, came to Vienna, prospered. . . . Then 

one by one the fashionables came to know of her estab¬ 
lishment. Her lists read like those of a social roster, 
both the gentlemen and the ladies. . . . Her adop¬ 
tions were many . . . she had several blond and 

several brunette ‘daughters’ at the same time, and was 
good company, and was always to be relied upon to 
offer a new spree catering to the whims of her ‘friends’ 
—like now!” 

In the home of this Elvira—fashionably furnished, 
well provided with servants, kept up in livery, present¬ 
ing a very respectable exterior,—the four young men 
and the older gathered on the stroke of nine. . . . 

It was a familiar ground. The war minister knew it. 
Von Steinbrueck had a very good understanding with 
Madame Elvira. . . . Rudi and Nicki knew it, they 
often entertained their friends here. The Count von 
Hohenegg was perfectly at home. He could call any 
of the ladies on the list by the first name. Thus the 
party was close. Prince Eitel Hochmut had perhaps 
been here the fewest times of any—three or four. . . . 

Elvira commenced the evening by serving a course 
of buttered snails . . . then she brought in fowl, 

truffles, white wines, heavy wines . . . salad fol¬ 

lowed . . . further wine, conserves, sherbets, roasts. 

. . . Endlessly the dinner, until twelve o’clock, lasted 
in the dinner-hall. ... She allowed her guests 
to come and go as they pleased, always remaining 
inside the house. They drank sitting, standing . . 



Madame Elvira 


81 


they stood on their heads or their feet. Such is 
license when an evening is spent under unlicensed cir¬ 
cumstances. . . . 

Rudi got fearfully drunk, and refused to do anything 
but play melancholy airs on the piano, to which the 
hired musicians objected. Eitel sat as close as bulk 
permitted beside the pretty “daughter” called Dita and 
stuffed olives into her mouth. Nicki gave his friend 
Fanny her choice of his ring or his cuff-link, jeweled. 
She took both! 

Franzl watched the war minister, the father of his 
Gisella, and thought what a rogue he was, for he paid, 
in the long run, for everything. And when Gretel, who 
sat next to him, filled her mouth with tobacco smoke 
and begged him for a kiss, he kissed her at table, as 
was allowable under the conditions, and found that he 
had inhaled her entire breath. . . . 

So with one amusement after the other the hands of 
the clock went around. 

It was time for the bathing party. 

“Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” cried Mitzerl, jumping 
upon the table: “Now we shall see—” 

“-what we shall see,” finished Prince Eitel hu¬ 

mourously. “How do you know? Maybe our little 
Gretel will drown.” . . . 

“Not in a loving-cup, pooh!” 

“Have you seen the cup?” 

“No, how is it?” 

“Big enough to drown two little Mitzerls!” ex¬ 
claimed the prince. “It comes upon me just this way— 
we are drunk and don’t know anything. It might be 
well to have a man from the fire department to pull her 
out by the feet!” 

“Nonsense, who is drunk?” said Nicki. “Steinbrueck 
hasn’t kissed me, and the ladies are well off. They 
haven’t even got sleepy, or did I hear anyone say so 
while I was not listening? . . .” 



82 Merry-Go-Round 

“Come, don’t be fresh, Nicki,” Mitzerl cried, “you 
know where you are!” 

“I’m at home!” 

“We’re at home—we’re all at home at Elvira’s,” 
sang Rudi, catching the phrase and singing it in a most 
dreary manner to melancholy music. . . . 

“I have all the ingredients, and now, count, if you 
are willing, we will mix the loving-cup,” Madame El¬ 
vira said to Franzl, motioning all to be seated around 
the table. “We all know, my friends, what a very good 
mixer the count is!” 

The girls shrieked with laughter. 

“Come, Gretel, we are going out to see if the punch¬ 
bowl fits you.” 

“By all means, by all means!” . . . 

Everybody started clapping their hands and dinned 
them out of the room. Elvira returned before the table 
was entirely cleared and went up to the war minister: 

“My dear Conrad, my butler announced there was a 
man here to see you. I went, to save you the annoy¬ 
ance. ... It was von Harlow, he came from T-. 

I think the German foreign minister wants to have a 
meeting with you yet tonight. It will be after two—at 
his house. You can drive from here . . . the man 
speaks so abominably through his nose I can never 
understand him. . . .” 

“My darling,” he drew her dark head down on a 
level with his own,—“you are a marvel! Without you 
—well, you are so capable. . . . Come, nobody ob¬ 

jects,”—he pressed his lips to hers. Arching and full, 
they were rouged to perfection. ... “I have only 
one thing to thank the lieber Gott for: he has given to 
me—you!” 

“But—you will not forget?” . . . 

“What is that? to see T-? Do not bother me 

with trifles. This is evening, not morning ... at 
two it will be day!” . . . 




Madame Elvira 


83 


“. . . Von Harlow says—” 

“Nefer mind ... I will not hear it. . . He 
stopped her mouth with another kiss, this time insert¬ 
ing his tongue. . . . He put his arms around her and 
drew her half on his knees. . . . “Tiddle-um, tiddle- 
up, tiddle-e-e-ee!” he commenced to tap with his foot. 
She was a voluptuous woman, gowned in black which 
outlined her figure closely and exposed her neck and 
arms to a great degree; and after he amused himself 
this way for some time, he released her, kissing the 
mole in her back with a vigorous smack—and her serv¬ 
ants brought the punch-bowl in. . . . 

It was an enormous bowl, at least four feet in diame¬ 
ter, perfectly rounded, and four feet high . . . they 
carried it braced on their shoulders, three of them, and 
as it was crystal, covered with masses of orange and 
acacia blossoms trailing all over the outside, nobody 
could have looked into the interior. . . It was placed 
on the table ... a heavily chiselled ladle hung over 
the rim. . . . 

“How are you going to fill it?” shrieked Mitzerl. 

“Leth’s not worry about that,” Fanny rejoined. 
“Ith’s for Franzl to fret—he promithed to fill it with 
thampagne. . . .” 

Madame Elvira merely smiled. Her butler was in¬ 
structed—he knew how the bowl would be filled. 

In succession he brought the ingredients of a punch: 
sliced pineapples, mint, strawberries, oranges and 
lemons, a bottle of Absinthe, twelve magnums of 
Roderer demi sec and six bowls of Burgundy. . . . 

A wild cheer broke out. 

“Franzl, you fill it! . . . ooh, it’ll run over . . . 

what an idea! He can’t reach the edge, it is over his 
head . . . well, lift the bottles up! Hurrah! we’ll 
all help ... no, let him alone. . . .” 

But the butler did the actual drawing of corks. 
Franzl lifted and filled in the bottles one by one, after 


84 


Merry-Go-Round 


the sliced oranges and strawberries had gone in . . . 

then the pineapples . . . the Burgundy . . . the 

Absinthe. . . . 

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Ladle it around!” . . . 

He lifted his arm to do so, but there was a sudden 
splash! . . . the wine came over the edges and 

deluged the table-cloth. ... A hand and an arm 
appeared and raised to a shoulder, whereupon the head 
followed, and the neck,—there was Gretel! She had, 
apparently, nothing on inside the punch-bowl, her hair 
was streaming, and she shrieked and laughed so that 
the wine kept bubbling and the company was inflamed 
to the highest pitch!. 

“She’s in! she’s in! What have you got on? Are 
you naked, Gretel? . . . give us a soup-ladle of that 
wine! . . . .” 

Cries... laughter... the mounting hysteria of an 
orgy..... 

Prince Eitel Hochmut alone kept his head because he 
was so debauched that to lose it to him seemed child¬ 
ish.... 

“Na-so,” he said, withdrawing from the roof of his 
mouth a tongue sweating under the pressure of a full 
glass of punch,—“this is as it should be, but a virgin 
gives a sweeter flavour.... I know, I have tasted 
both. . . Well, listen now, I want to see what I am 
drinking!” . . . 

This precipitated an immediate riot to get up on the 
table-top. . . all the women were unchivalrously 
pushed down and all the men clambered up. In the 
scuffle, six lit candles, standing to give them a certain 
light effect, were thrown down, and the room was 
plunged in darkness! . . . 





XI 


HUBER COLLECTS HIS GREATEST CROWD 

Candles, burning at the head and feet of the corpse, 
were extinguished. Nothing except daylight, penetrat¬ 
ing the meagre window and dropping upon the camel- 
back trunk, the ragged carpet-bag, the table, three 
chairs, soap-box on end,—gave any outline to the room 
of Ursula Urban. . . . The body was gone. The 

mattress still lay, sunk in the middle, tossed with signs 
of perspiration not too pleasant, and the recollection 
of a live thing lying there that was, and the empty 
vacuum of the dead. . . . 

Sylvester sat by the table. He had just come in. 
The funeral was over. He had the funeral bill to con¬ 
sider, and the doctor’s fees, which were small, but to 
him quite a mountain. 

Agnes was down below. She came also from the 
cemetery, her eyes yet red, her mouth contracted with 
the dizziness and pain following the morbid horror of 
death and the last solemn rites. ... It was morn¬ 
ing, she had duties. . . . One of these was to clean 

the place where pleasure stalked by the sunlight of 
afternoon and artificial lamplight of night, where peo¬ 
ple came to laugh and sing, and forget all about the 
sterner realities of life, such as this thing that had just 
happened — that was happening in all parts of the 
world every hour of the twenty-four. . . . 

Agnes swept the platform of the merry-go-round 
with a large broom, twice too heavy for her usual 
fragile frame, and now like a burden. Between the 
crannies was dust, and the horses’ manes and tails 
needed combing . . . the carriages held papers and 

fruit-peels scattered about, and cake-crumbs and sticky 

85 


86 


Merry-Go-Round 


candy were on the floor. The morning being without 
performance, the canvas flap was still down in front, 
cutting off the street—a protection against the weather 
and beggars or stray children who were inclined to hop 
about like sparrows on the motionless Karrusell, from 
elephants’ backs to gondolas and off and on as if they 
were leaping from a street-car platform in motion—a 
fascinating game. 

At this hour all the inhabitants of the Wurstel- 
prater—performers, spielers, the giant, the dwarfs, ac¬ 
robats, employes—ate at the coffee counters, sitting 
up and ordering Wienerwurst , smoking pipes stolidly 
before the concessions, mingling, swapping stories, run¬ 
ning about in dirty kitchen aprons or in less than this, 
merely with coats over . . . They were a motley, 
strange assemblage, like a menagerie, having tigerish 
dispositions and the simplicity of little cubs . . . and 
then an occasional high-voiced lady like a parrot calling 
to another with children hiding under her apron like a 
brood of chicks. 

But behind the flap of canvas Agnes was quite alone, 
sweeping, cleaning, dusting, thinking always that she 
was quite alone except for Sylvester who sat upstairs 
with a little cigar-box before him containing a few 
coins, all that they had, and the undertaker’s bill, third 
class, seventy-five crowns, and the twelve visits of the 
doctor, twenty-four crowns, damning him. . . . He 
was a conscientious man, stroking his forehead, child¬ 
ishly wrestling with a problem that had no solution. . . . 

She set her broom against the door and turned to go 
into the ticket-booth and fish out the remnants of the 
ticket stubs blown in there and wrappers from new 
rolls. All at once the broom fell down 1 She 
turned and saw Huber coming into the merry-go-round, 
a cigarette in his mouth, unlighted, and the look on his 
face of a man who is glad to see—a woman, someone 
he has been waiting for. . . . There was a diabolical 


Huber Collects His Greatest Crowd 


87 


cast to his eye and a twitching of his beard that was 
not usual with Schani Huber. . . 

She saw him light his cigarette, nonchalantly, the 
hand went up and took the little flame to the weed. He 
towered above her when they stood alongside; his great 
frame filled the doorway. 

“Since when you been back?” he said insolently, “I 
was waitin’ for you ...” and he started to walk 
toward her. 

Agnes did not wait, but started also—walking around 
him, trying to get past to the door. Fear was in her 
heart, a nauseating feeling that she could not reach 
it . . . weakness in her legs from what she had been 
through in the morning and this combined. 

“Nothin’ doin’,” he said briefly, blocking her way. 

“Let me get out.” 

“Nothin’ doin’ ... I got something t’ say t’ 
you ...” 

She tried to dart past him, ducking under his arm 
... he caught her by the shoulder— 

“Wait, I say! Dammit, can’t you be decent . . . 
listen here, Agnes, we played this game too long . . . 
you know what I want ... I been stuck on you for a 
long time, but it’s got past words. . . . There’s a 
lotta dames would run a hundred miles t’ be my sweet¬ 
heart. ...” 

“Then why pick on me?” she stuttered; “ain’t you 
m-married?” 

“Married—hell! that don’t bother me . . . it’s 
you I’m wantin’!” 

She started in to struggle, jerking and twisting her¬ 
self to get out of his grasp. 

“You little devil . . . you wanna wrassel—I’ll give 
you somethin’ . . . I’ll make y’ mouth burn!” 

He bent over her, crushing her in the power of one 
hand around the waist so every bit of breath was taken 
out of her, she was nauseated and fainting. . . . He 


88 


Merry-Go-Round 


let her go just as suddenly and she fell over backwards, 
stumbling so he had to catch her . . . and again he 
started to kiss her with a smacking of wet lips like a 
savage dog over the carcass of a sheep in the mountains. 
It was interminable—this kissing, and the door stood 
open behind them . . . locked like one figure, they pre¬ 
sented the apparition of a new monstrosity on the 
Prater. 

Mrs. Huber found them this way, coming down her 
stairs, into the open door, where she stood, stupefied, 
unable to advance or fall back,—breathing as if she 
were about to burst, frightened, dumbfounded, made ill 
all at once! 

Huber, springing back, gave her no time to re¬ 
cover. He was caught, red-handed, like a sheep-killer, 
but he was cruel and he could laugh. Nobody ran his 
life, only he . . . nobody could take his sweets from 
him. 

He flung himself at the door and he gave her a blow 
with it that sent her reeling backward— 

“Get out, damn your hide ! get out and stay out!” . . . 

The door slammed. He locked it. 

“Now, my babee, we only jus’ commenced . . . I’m 
gonna have what I want an’ I’m gonna have it now!” 

He made a leap, but the girl had recovered and was 
too swift for him. She ran. He followed. Around 
and around the merry-go-round they flew. . . . She 
commenced to scream and sent out piercing cries from 
the canvas tent that were heard upstairs where Sylves¬ 
ter sat over the undertaker’s bill,—that were heard all 
over the Prater. ... He came tumbling down. The 
back door was locked. Mrs. Huber was gone. The 
front flap was open. He ran around to the front . . . 
but he couldn’t get the front open either! 

In his head—right out of the subconscious shot the 
thought—“The hairy monkey ... as big as a man, 
not too hairy!” . . . Ursula’s dream! He com- 


Huber Collects His Greatest Crowd 


89 


menced to open his pocket-knife, cutting the flap, trem¬ 
bling like a man with the vertigo. . . . 

. . . And from every corner of the Volksprater came 
the people, running, shouting . . . Bartholomew, Au¬ 
rora Rossreiter, Boniface hopping after . . . Astarte, 
Astarte’s barker . . . the lemonade woman and her 
son, the deep-sea diver, his wife . . . acrobats, pianists, 
the gypsies . . . employes of the street and its booths 
and the street-car men, coffee-house proprietors, wait¬ 
ers, head-waiters, street-sweepers, dancers, dwarfs . . . 
the children of all the performers, their dogs, cats, 
little beggars and big beggars, and the women who 
played as animated dolls, the men from the Panopti- 
kem . . . Daphne, Fortuna and Flora . . . the woman 
without lower body, the man with six thumbs, the 
skeleton, the snake-charmer—like one they ran over, 
attracted by the cries, inhuman and piercing! . . . 

Sylvester was already inside, pulling his legs through 
the slit which he had cut. Batholomew followed with 
Boniface who made little screaming noises in imita¬ 
tion. . . . Mrs. Rossreiter, the fat lady, was too large, 
and all, struck with a sudden idea as they came on the 
spot, commenced to rip the seams of the canvas to al¬ 
low her to pass inside. 

Huber by this time, with his hands on Agnes, was 
smothering her mouth, shouting— 

“You’ll pay for this, you little cheat—you’ll pay, 
you’ll pay!” 

“Don’t touch me!” she gasped. 

“Shut up ! I’ll touch your dam’-” 

“You beast!” 

Sylvester leaped upon him from behind, bearing him 
down and fastening his hands on his throat. . . . Agnes 
went down with them but was dragged off by Bartholo¬ 
mew; the monkey, who imitated everything they did, 
squealing with excitement, jumped back and forth, back 
and forth. . . . 



90 


Merry-Go-Round 


Huber was a powerful man, he could wrestle with 
Sylvester. But he had no pocket-knife . . . Sylvester 
lifted it and struck! . . . 

“God dam’, you son of a bitch! . . . dam’ you, 
dam’ you, dam’ you!” . . . 

The blood commenced to flow. 

Sylvester stood speechless, looking at his knife. 

“You done f’ me now . . . call the police—get 
somebody!” 

But the Prater street was already in the concession— 
performers, organ-grinders, acrobats, children, dogs! 
Everybody swarmed around, a chattering, noisy, turbu¬ 
lent mass of people, crying, 

“It’s a good thing! it’s a good thing . . . he’s 
only struck . . . not dead! Come away . . . whatta 
you care?—it’s Huber . . . he’s got what’s cornin’ ...” 

Screams, exclamations, shouts. . . . 

The police came, following the crowds, separated 
them and stepped in between— 

“Who did this? what’s the matter here? who stabbed 
this man?” 

“He done it,” said Huber, designating Sylvester, 
“the dirty cuss!” 

“You ain’t dead.” . . . 

“He done f’ me!” 

“No, it’s only a flesh wound, in the shoulder . . . 
come here, give me a handkerchief ...” one of the 
police officers bound him up. The other said to Syl¬ 
vester with arrogance, which is common among those 
with a uniform on their backs who are among plain 
citizens,— 

“Well, what have you got to say about this, 
Pojaz ? 1 ...” 

“I,” said Sylvester, “I was sitting upstairs-” 

“Yes, we’ll leave that to the judge ... I don’t let 
anybody tell me anything; first, come to headquarters 


1 clown, performer. 




Huber Collects His Greatest Crowd 


91 


and see the magistrate . . . we’ll leave it to him. You 
preferring a charge?” . . . 

“Sure, I’m preferrin’ a charge—he struck me!” 
shouted Huber. 

Sylvester, still stupefied by the suddenness of circum¬ 
stances, began—“See, Mr. Policeman, he was—he was 
assaulting my daughter-” 

“That is as it is . . . is that the knife?” 

The two officers took him in charge ... he gave 
up the little knife, bloody, an inch or two of pointed 
steel that was the cause of all this commotion. 

But it was Agnes who commenced to shake, sobbing 
on Bartholomew’s arm, “They’re goin’ to take him. 
He didn’t do it—he done nothin’—I did!” 

“What is that?” said the officer. 

“Sure! she done as much as he!” Huber shouted 
loudly: “take ’er along, she’s a vagrant anyhow—I’m 
through with ’er . . . she goes out in the street.” 

“Don’t you lissun to that liar. She ain’t no vagrant,” 
interposed the fat woman . . . “she works for me 
from now on . . . and when her father comes back 
he works for me again, any time. . . . Don’t you 
worry, honey,” she soothed and patted her—“it’s all 
right with me-” 

“But they’re takin’ my father,” screamed Agnes,— 
“don’t you see, Mrs. Rossreiter,—oh my God, they’re 
takin’ him to jail!” . . . 




XII 


TWO MONTHS LATER 

Sylvester was still in jail. Summer had come, the 
chestnuts were in full leaf, birds sang ... It was June. 

On the 26th, Agnes, determined to see her father, 
started off from the Wurstelprater. She had gone to 
the city jail before but had never been allowed to see 
him. Justice is slow. The preliminary examination 
took place but the transfer had not yet been made. . . . 

Before the stone prison people came and went. The 
patrol wagon was driven in, they stopped and looked 
at the prisoners being brought for minor offenses and 
fratricide and infanticide . . . crime is always a thing 
that interests and criminals stir up more concern than 
the passage of a war minister or a foreign attache. . . . 

Agnes, leaving the Prater bus, came to the city 
prison. She had a shaking, always accompanied by 
tears, when she came here. Her father was inside— 
her best-beloved. Her mother was in the ground. 
Life was hollow—there was nobody but Mrs. Ross- 
reiter, the woman who was a second mother to her 
now. Bartholomew, the hunchback, loved her too, but 
it was a different kind of love. He was good. He 
gave her candy, squeezed her hand. She loved him— 
for what he was, a good, kind fellow, and his little 
monkey, Boniface, who hated Huber, who was her 
enemy. . . . 

The patrol-wagon was empty; it should have driven 
away. Instead, the prison doors opened and two of¬ 
ficers came out with a criminal between them. Who 
was this “criminal”? Sylvester! 

Agnes gave a great cry and launched herself into his 
arms! 


92 


Two Months Later 


93 


“They are letting you go? you are free?” . . . 

He tenderly stroked her hair— 

“Not yet. It is only the preliminary examination. 
I am being transferred ...” 

“Where?” 

“To the county jail.” 

“Ooh, they are taking you still further?” 

“Don’t cry. Only—how are you? See, we will soon 
have a crowd of people here. My little girl looks 
well,” said Sylvester. 

“But you, papa, you look pale. What have they 
done to you?” she moaned. . . . 

“Come, come,” said the police-officer. 

She buried her face in her father’s shoulder— 

“Come home to me soon! Ooh, you don’t know— 
can’t think—how lonesome it is, papa,—you here . . . 
mamma gone ... I lay awake every night—I can't 
sleep. How can I get you out of here? ...” 

“I don’t know, my darling, good-bye ...” 

He kissed her again, she clung to him—“Don’t go, 
papa, don’t go! . . . ” 

But Sylvester had to go, and inside the patrol wagon 
with its grating in the rear, he leaned his face against 
the cold bars and gazed out at her with hopeless, yet 
resigned and wordless, sorrow. . . . 

She stood undecided. She felt crushed. 

Only one place there is where people go who have 
overwhelming miseries on their shoulders. This is to 
the Stephansdom which stands on the Stephansplatz 
practically in the center of Vienna proper—the great 
church with its Catholic spires and crosses, its enor¬ 
mous nave, high altar, communion service and con¬ 
fessional. 

Agnes found her footsteps leading her to Stephans¬ 
dom. 

Inside was a quiet and reigning peace. If people 
came in and went out—which they did all day long, 


94 


Merry-Go-Round 


you were not aware of them. They never stepped in 
each other’s way. The church is large, the people are 
considerate. . . . The priests, passing back and forth, 
have a comforting look, and the incense, which is part 
and pertinent to all churches and belongs with the 
painted saints and lead-glass windows,—soothes the 
nerves and makes a godly rite of a human one. 

Agnes knelt and she gave up to the church all the 
inmost thoughts of her heart. She prayed for her 
mother. She prayed for her father. She thought of 
praying for Huber as a good Christian, but the thought 
was repellant to her. . . . He could find his own sanc¬ 
tuary, his own god in his own way. She could not 
shrive his soul and she would not call even the good 
Lord-God’s attention to it and thereby bring him nearer 
to salvation. 

She rose from her knees and went out feeling 
warmer and comforted, stopping at the font to cross 
herself with holy water. The day was yet splendid 
and the sun high without; and, standing before Ste- 
phansdom, she saw an elegant carriage with liveried 
footman and coachman, drive to a standstill before the 
church. The servants wore light riding-boots with 
dark tops, gray coats and cockaded hats. The carriage 
wore a crest on the lap-robe which covered a beautiful 
woman. . . . 

Agnes saw the woman, but the woman did not see 
her. If she had, it would have made no difference. 
Such a stylish and aristocratic person does not notice 
the poor and the shabbily dressed coming in or going 
out of places. There are too many of them and they 
count too little in the autocratic life of Vienna. . . . 

The Stephansplatz throbbed with life. Other car¬ 
riages and delivery carts, shoppers, business men, sen¬ 
sation-hunters, crossed and criss-crossed the square. . . . 
The imperial and royal court supplier of robes—N. 
Sitich—was here . . . Jacob Rothberger, a familiar 


Two Months Later 


95 


name, across from him; Mandelbaum and Rosenstein, 
the imperial and royal court suppliers of neckties, next 
to him. . . . 

Coming out of Mandelbaum and Rosenstein was a 
tall young man who wore very well-fitting and high- 
class clothes for a civilian and had a military walk 
so far as Austrians ever walked militarily. The walk 
was a slight slouch; it had none of the Prussian swag¬ 
ger; it was the exact duplicate of Emperor Franz- 
Josef’s walk, which all his officers imitated involuntarily. 
.... And all in all, the young man proceeded rather 
rapidly and was about to diagonal the street when 
Agnes perceived him from the Stephansdom and let 
out a little cry! She recognized Mr. Franz Meier. . . . 

She ran up to him at once. 

Franzl stopped and regarded her strangely. . . . 

“Isn’t this—” she commenced timidly. 

He looked into her face— 

“Why yes . . . how are you?” 

Franzl was good-natured and he forgot for the mo¬ 
ment that they were not in the Prater. He placed 
her—she was the good-looking girl in the Ringelspiel 
. . . Her colour was heightened—she had roses in her 
cheeks and the poor black cape and vile-fitting shoes, 
dress and mittens of the girl could not hide the fact 
that she was pretty. 

“Hello there . . . what are you doing here? Let’s 
get out of the street where we don’t get run over and 
talk on the sidewalk. ...” He led her by the arm 
to the sidewalk. “Shall we walk here?” 

“Where were you—ooh, I know: you were just 
coming out of the necktie store!” said Agnes. 

“Yes, did you see me?” 

“No, but I know you work there.” 

This information caught Franzl for a moment off 
guard. He was buying a line of new ties, true, but he 
didn’t remember—oh yes! by jove! 


96 


Merry-Go-Round 


“Sure/’ he said, “sure. I forgot ... I mean, I 
forgot that you knew it. . . . Yes, I work there, but 
I have an hour or two off.” 

“Is it lunchtime?” 

“Are you hungry?” 

“No, I used to eat,” she said wistfully, “but the 
feeling’s wore off. . . . My mother’s dead.” 

“Oh, did she die?” sympathized Franzl. 

“Yes, my father’s in jail too.” 

He stopped still— 

“What do you mean—your father’s in jail?” 

“He is. They took him. I haven’t been able to do 
nothin’ for him. I’m pretty near desp’rate,” and she 
commenced to sob convulsively. . . . 

Franzl thought for a moment. The spectacle of 
himself, stylishly groomed, talking to this wisp of a 
sad-eyed child in the clothes of a slumswoman in the 
fashionable location of the Stephansplatz, was bound 
to attract attention. A Fiaker passed. He put up his 
hand and stopped it, and begged her— 

“See, I have to go some place. Will you step in? 
We can talk about it inside while we’re driving. ...” 

Agnes trusted him completely—“Sure,” she said. 
They stepped in. 

“Obere-Augartenstrasse,” said Franzl, after a mo¬ 
ment of hesitation. . . . 

He was right. 

He had been seen. And Agnes, standing so demure¬ 
ly and in her slumswoman’s clothes before the imperial 
and royal business of robes, was also seen. It was the 
woman in the equipage in front of Stephansdom, com¬ 
ing out of the church after her rapid confession, that 
passed them, and, as she did so, said to her coachman— 

“Drive slowly, turn to the left. Draw up . . . wait 
until the Fiaker passes, which is on your right, and fol¬ 
low it. I don’t want to be seen. ...” 


XIII 


A TRAGEDY IN THE DANUBE 

Franzl, designating Madame Elvira’s house, had an 
object in view. It was a similar object to many he had 
before: the enticement of a pretty girl from the 
Wurstelprater into the home of a demimondaine for 
the purpose of debauching her. . . . 

They drove rapidly. 

But in the Fiaker, as they swung into Rothenthurm- 
strasse and along Franz-Josef’s Quai in order to cross 
the canal into Taborstrasse which leads into Obere- 
Augartenstrasse, No. 14,—she commenced to tell him 
about the troubles on the concession two months pre¬ 
viously: her sorrow after her mother’s death, the 
funeral, her taking flowers—Bartholomew’s violets, she 
hadn’t money to buy any herself,—and riding in a car¬ 
riage hired by Mrs. Rossreiter behind the hearse . . . 
and that when she returned, and had only two hours 
to get the merry-go-round in shape, Huber had come 
in and assaulted her. . . . 

Here her eyes filled with tears . . . she raised them 
up to him. Franzl felt very much like a man who has 
prepared himself for an undertaking whose nerve fails 
him, or, in other words, succumbs to qualms. . . . 

But he sympathised. He heard her tell over again 
the whole struggle: her escape, her running around the 
booth to ward Huber off, his wife’s appearance, and 
what that wife had thought of her. This bothered 
her conscience, for, no matter how many times she ex¬ 
cused herself to Mrs. Huber and no matter how many 
times Mrs. Huber excused her for all the trouble,—she 
knew in her inmost heart there was a canker there. 
Mrs. Huber hated her! She had stolen her husband 


97 


98 


Merry-Go-Round 


. . . they got on very poorly anyway . . . were al¬ 
ways quarreling . . . lived in a dingy flat over the 
concession, counting money which Marianka never 
spent . . . living on cheap food with poor dishes and 
rancid butter. . . . 

These things in the greatest detail she had time to 
tell Franz, her friend, and he listened. Then her 
father was overhead and he heard her cries and came 
down with his pen-knife ... he stabbed Schani Huber 
—not much, only in the shoulder. . . . But the police 
came—two big officers, walking through from Venedig 
in Wien, from the Praterstern, where they generally 
stood and held up the traffic,—and he was taken to 
prison. . . . She had been there to visit him. They 
were taking him to the county jail today. . . . 

Clap—clap—clap! 

The horse’s hoofs clattered over the Franz-Josef’s 
Quai to the Ferdinandsbriicke, where they assumed a 
noiseless tread on the wooden blocks covering the splen¬ 
did steel structure. . . . 

Behind came another carriage. It was the livery. 
All of a block intervened. 

“Drive far back, I don’t want to be seen,” said the 
lady. Her coachman responded by drawing up the 
horses. 

As he did so a singular thing happened. 

The Fiaker had gotten ahead now. The street be¬ 
yond and before was quiet, and on the bridge stood a 
woman with a little boy of six and a baby. . . . She 
held the baby. She looked into the Danube Canal, 
which is also known as the Danube Channel, an off¬ 
shoot or branch of the main current of the River 
Danube about two miles distant. . . . Her clothes were 
rusty—black and brown turned green and gray, torn, 
badly worn. . . . Yes, just like a crow she stood there, 
motionless, her head wrapped in a shawl so even here 
she was unrecognizable,—like the birds circling over- 


A Tragedy in the Danube 


99 


head, two—throwing their shadows for some purpose 
on the Ferdinandsbriicke, outlined by the sun. . . . 

And watching them, she suddenly took her shawl 
from her head and wrapped it about the body of the 
boy . . . then clutched the bundle to her that was a 
child in arms and leaped into the channel! 

As there was a railing she first had to get through. 
This she accomplished, difficult as it seemed, without 
hesitance, wriggling through like a lizard, and hung 
for just a moment before she was off. 

There was a loud splash. 

The coachman of the carriage, seeing this leap, drew 
up his horses and stopped directly above her as he was 
about to clatter by. . . . 

“My God, my lady,” he exclaimed, affrighted,—“a 
woman has just jumped into the water!” . . . 

The woman in the equipage turned pale. 

The footman, sitting on the box, leaned over at once, 
looking into the stream— 

“I will go after her,” he said: “she is struggling . . . 
wait . . . call somebody ...” 

He was about to swing himself down. 

“Drive on,” said the woman in the carriage, “do 
you want me to be sick? Drive, drive. . . .” 

The coachman looked at the footman, who was 
taken aback— 

“But the woman is dr-” 

“Drive on!” . . . 

The Fiaker was now two blocks or more ahead. The 
outline was nearly lost. The coachman, trembling 
from his emotion and indecision, for he was seeing a 
human being die and was not going to assist her!— 
whipped up his horses, instead, to overtake the Fiaker 
and clattered over the asphalt street, covering a block 
and half of another. . . . 

“Now don’t get too close!” cried the lady, her tones 
impassioned and not shaken in the least, “keep a half- 



100 


Merry-Go-Round 


block to the rear. This must not be lost sight of. . . . 
And if you cannot manage, then give the reins to 
Rudolf. 

It was only necessary to keep the vehicle in sight. 
Such a simple piece of instruction had never before 
been given to Jacob, the coachman, and yet so upset 
was he—so confounded by the immediate happening, 
he flicked the horses with his whip when he should have 
let them alone and dragged them to a stand when he 
should have let them ride, and started and stopped and 
shook the carriage until, if his mistress had had a weak 
stomach, she must surely have developed a case of 
nausea. But she had not. 

The Fiaker continued until Obere-Augartenstrasse. 
Then Franzl signalled his driver to find No. 14. He 
had already made up his plan in his head; he knew 
what to do. Agnes had her father’s trouble uppermost 
in mind? He took her hand on the journey and began 
to stroke it—he adopted a big-brother attitude— 

“Now Agnes, I am, as you know, nothing but a 
necktie salesman. I have no influence, but I have a very 
good friend who is influential—I even think, as a 
favour to me, an extreme favour!—he will exert him¬ 
self for my sake, and we will see—right now—what 
we can do to get your father out. . . . ” 

“Ooh, is that possible!” she cried joyously. 

“Only trust in me.” 

“I do, I do!” 

“Well, then,—here we are. This is the home of the 
commissary of police, my very best friend. We will 
now see if he is at home. ...” 

He started to dismount from the Fiaker before El¬ 
vira’s house. 

“Then you drove all the way over here, payin’ for a 
carridge, jus’t’ see your friend and get him t’ help me? 
ooh!” said Agnes, awestrickenly,—“ooh!” . . . 

“Indeed I did,” he squeezed her hand. “Wait right 


A Tragedy in the Danube 


101 


here ... I won’t be long, I just want to see if he is 
at home. If not, I’ll make another engagement.” 

And so he went in and the liveried carriage, waiting 
a half-block down the street, had orders to observe him 
closely and to drive slowly past if he remained inside. 
The occupant wished to see exactly where this Franzl, 
Count von Hohenegg, had his rendezvous for the after¬ 
noon, for rendezvous it seemed to be, since there was a 
girl and a Fiaker hired for the occasion! . . . and to 
read the number above the door of the house. 

But Franzl shortly came outside again. His face 
wore a simulated disappointed air. . . . 

“I am sorry, very sorry, but the fact is the commissary 
is not there. His wife is at home, however, and she 
says if we will come inside and wait for a few moments, 
she will send a servant for her husband and we can get 
the matter straightened out. I’m afraid it’s the best 
we can do,” he said ruefully, “what do you say?” . . . 

She answered him by springing out of the carriage! 

“Then you want to go in?” 

She nodded her head briskly, looking up at him with 
joy in her eyes. Her naivete in face of the state of 
her apparel was touching. . . . 

What had really happened was this: 

Franzl, who always depended on Elvira, found her 
at home among her gaudy and costly furnishings—the 
prizes won through the infatuation of the war minis¬ 
ter,—and her servants and pleasant rooms, many too 
many for this one woman to occupy. He immediately 
took her into his confidence— 

“I have a little—well, a little-” 

“Let us say friend. ...” 

“. . . yes, friend outside, and I need your-” 

“Rest easy, you can have my whole house!” 

“That is true. I only need one room. But it is 
your cooperation I want, yourself, your help, aid,— 
whatever you want to call it. . . . ” 




102 


Merry-Go-Round 


“In what way?” 

“The girl has been unfortunate. She had a tussle 
with a—a sort of ruffian—she is not a girl of easy 
virtue—and the fellow was—was getting the better of 
her, so her father pitched in and they got him after 
the fight and put him in jail. ...” 

“Who—the ‘ruffian’?” asked Elvira sarcastically. 
“Why they have never harmed a one of you—Nicki, 
Rudi or yourself—or Eitel!” 

“No, be serious . . . her father. He’s in jail, 
we’re to get him out.” 

“You don’t need me.” 

“I do. I’ve got her sympathy.” . . . 

“That goes far.” 

“I told her I was a necktie salesman, my friend the 
commissary of police lives here and you are his 
wife. ...” 

Madame Elvira started to laugh— 

“The thing is not so far-fetched. ...” 

“Well, it could be further,” he admitted: “Stein- 
brueck’s the war minister. ...” 

“And I-” she checked herself. Elvira’s am¬ 

bition was to marry the Count von Steinbrueck and 
to become the countess some day and decide for¬ 
tunes of peace and war in Europe. . . . But she 
concluded, owing to the delicate connection between 
the Count von Hohenegg and the Countess Gisella, it 
was better to keep this matter private, so substituted: 
“I am only too glad to be of service. That is my 
business; and so, what do you want me to say to 
her? ...” 

“Only this: you expect your husband to be home, but 
not before six. Meantime you will send your servant 
to the Shotten-Ring, where is his office, and get him 
here on important business, to satisfy me. . . . Then 
decide to go yourself—to explain to him everything— 
and go or stay, but get out of the room. . . . The rest 



A Tragedy in the Danube 


103 


will be up to myself. And as for her father—I’ll get 
him out tomorrow.” . . . 

“And as for me: I’ll come back-” 

“. . . in an hour!” 

The arrangement perfect, Franzl skipped down the 
stairs. He gave his arm to Agnes, put on his most 
disappointed expression and started to mount the stairs 
with her. . . . 

The carriage which was down the street approached 
as if by signal. The lady looking out of it watched 
the backs of the strangely matched couple as the door 
opened and they disappeared inside. . . . 

“Drive home,” she said to Jacob on the high box . . . 
and leaned back with a little smile upon her lips. . . . 



XIV 


JOCK THE LADY-KILLER 

When the Viennese derby was run at the Freudenau 
in the Prater all nations sent in their mounts. If the 
biggest string was Viennese, owing to the proximity of 
events at home, a good attendance could be counted on 
from England and, with the horses, grooms, trainers, 
jockeys, stable-boys and stable-owners from the Downs 
and other famous courses across the channel. . . . 

When the derby is run it gathers together a motley 
assemblage. Cavalry officers come with their highly 
trained mounts and their air of superiority. Austrian 
cavalrymen can really ride. Not so well, perhaps, as 
the best men of picked celebrity in Belgium—but they 
jump steeples seldom attempted by lay riders and per¬ 
form on their dashing steeds in special and carefully 
conceived tricks. . . . Women of the court who have 
a love for horses are on the race-course. They wear 
habits and go out to judge purchases and take a turn 
about when they have chosen to add mare or stallion 
to their stables. . . . Some women only go to see and 
be seen and they, as at Longchamps, wear gowns of 
outre cut and design and hold gaudy parasols over their 
carefully coiffured heads. . . . Touts, racehorse gam¬ 
blers, hangers-on, checkered-suited flashy individuals 
with hats rakishly askew on their heads and indexes 
along with their canes in their hands, are also promi¬ 
nent on the courses . . . talking paddock lingo, chew¬ 
ing on their long black cigars. . . . 

At the Freudenau, Gisella, the Countess of Stein- 
brueck, had taken her first lesson in love. . . . She 
loved horses from infancy, but love of a human being— 
love of a man, came to her before the paddocks and 

104 


Jock the Lady Killer 


105 


the grandstand beyond the Unterer Prater and the 
Krieau in Freudenau, in its appointments one of the 
finest courses in the whole world. 

With the earl of C-’s stable, Jock the lady-killer 

came into Vienna. He had started as a stable-boy, 
risen to trainer, was now handling horses on the out¬ 
side, losing as much as he made on race courses, and 
all in all not very prosperous, but uncouth, servile, a 
smart horseman and a dissolute under-hostler at one 
time. He never felt secure enough to be a good gam¬ 
bler. He never had the confidence to take risks in 
business, branch out, be anything . . . only he was 
accustomed to catering after horses and to receiving 
some attention from women,—because of his uneven 
qualities, or lack of qualities, or some secret veiling the 
fact that he was nothing but might be a whole lot? . . . 
Who can fathom the reason of some men’s attractions 
for some women, or some women for some men? It 
is incongruous, it causes people to sneer, smile and 
shake their heads. But it takes place all the same. . . . 

Gisella had just made up her mind to buy two horses 
from another stable when she decided to wait with her 

purchases until she inspected the earl of C-’s horses 

to see if anything better were offered. . . . The first 
man she saw in the paddock was Jock Steers. Jock 
was polishing harness, his pipe in his mouth, heavy 
fumes issuing out, his brow furrowed by the perpetual 
two lines that gave him an hostler’s look, and his hands 
full of grease. But he removed his pipe and spat, when 
she looked at him, in a certain way. . . . He followed 
this with a look at her. It was curious, like a squint 
and survey at once—it made her shiver from some 
cause. . . . 

Maybe it was this narrow inspection—intended to 
be stupid, but having something evil in it—that at¬ 
tracted her attention. . . . Gisella felt repulsed and 
fascinated. The man was a conundrum. 




106 


Merry-Go-Round 


She turned to look over the horses, the groom show¬ 
ing her about. When she decided that nothing inter¬ 
ested her—except this man, she asked him, 

“Could you take the time to judge two horses for 
me in another stable? I’ll pay you well for your 
time.” . . . 

He spat before he answered—“Yes, I will.” 

“All right. Come this way. . . ” 

He did not trouble himself to put on his coat. He 
was too stupid and lazy . . . He left the pipe behind, 
odorous, on a shelf in the paddock. He gave a nod 
with his head to another groom as he passed, merely to 
signify that he had an outside job on his hands. . . . 

When Jock appraised the horses, the groom and the 
Countess Gisella met on even grounds. There is noth¬ 
ing that will bring a man and a woman closer . . . 
their social positions mean nothing, their thoughts are 
on the same thing . . . they judge each other in their 
judgment of animals, and if each measures up to the 
other’s expectations in talking horsey, they will be on a 
level, intimate and unrestrained. . . . 

Gisella came out of the Coeur Sacre originally—the 
convent, book learned, fluent in English as well as three 
other languages, and she had an interest in music. But 
horses were her pastime and horses she elected to 
think, talk, dream and eat! The stable was more a 
parlour to her than her drawing-room, and she would 
have slept there if dictation of caste had not been 
against it. . . . She read a great deal—books of the 
type of “Hands Around” by Dr. Schnitzler, and the 
“Decameron,” which she knew by heart, and the 
“Elegante Welt” x , which was on her boudoir table. . . . 

She bought the horses— 

“Now, see here, what money do you earn in Eng¬ 
land?” she asked the hostler. 

He spat— 


^‘Fashionable World,” a magazine. 



Jock the Lady Killer 


107 


“Me? Ten pounds an’ found. ...” 

He gave her a squinting look. 

“Will you leave Lord C- if I give you more 

money to work for me? You’ll have charge of the 
horses and three other men to help you. I ride every 
day. ...” 

“’Is lordship ’as no strings on me. I c’n talk a little 
Dutch too.” 

“I don’t care about the ‘Dutch,’ I want a man that 
can ride and groom a horse, and I think you know 
how. ...” 

He smiled and spat vilely— j j 

“Wot’ll y’ pay?” 

“I am the Countess von Steinbrueck. See your 
owner and tell him you are coming into my stable. 
Money is no object. . . . Arrange to bring these colts 
along, I’ve paid for them. The address is No. 7, 
Bartensteingasse. ...” 

Gisella felt a satisfaction in offering the man her 
livery. It was reducing him to slavery and he presented 
a puzzle of self-satisfaction. 

Jock commenced to ride with her. A whole year 
passed. She was no nearer solution of both his and her 
problems. He was still self-satisfied, she was attracted 
by him and by it. . . . He seemed to be hiding some 
secret fountain of strength when the attitude was sheer 
stupidity. 

At last she found that the sight of no other man was 
gratifying to her, Jock was fostering this. He was not 
so stupid but that he was evil. The regular routine 
with time for thought and the constant picture of the 
countess before him, gave him a half sign of her in¬ 
tentions. . . . They passed looks, talked in the stable 
. . . he was even good-humoured about what was going 
to happen and gave Bunny, the second groom, a wink 
about it when the Countess Gisella left, after pressing 
his hand. . . . 



108 


Merry-Go-Round 


She commenced to make love to him ... in the 
midst of an affair in her ballroom when the war min¬ 
ister, giving a formal function, had half the court there, 
she would leave—going down the back stairs—and run 
out to the stalls where Jock would be counting money 
—he got an extra good salary from his infatuated 
countess!—and Bunny stood in another part of the 
stable, the harness room, polishing her saddle; and 
here, sitting on a stool, lighting a cigarette for him 
and herself, she would take her shawl off and exhibit 
herself in full evening dress. . . . 

She puffed quietly—in significant intimacy. . . . 

Jock looked at her bare shoulders and arms. If he 
relished this sight, his features never moved. If she 
knew what his thoughts were, she enjoyed them . . . 
this lower-world license gave her a different feeling— 
more disgustingly licentious—than the gaze of officials 
in the ballroom. The groom commenced to have a 
hard time of it. From scoffs and sneers behind her 
back he went into a struggle, which, in the end, made 
a rich man of him. He began it right here . . . when 
his blood moved ... in the restraint that he put on 
himself like a coyote being snapped at by a tigress! . . . 

She took his hand and drew him close to her— 

“Those abominable bores—I couldn’t stand them a 
moment longer. I wanted to come down here, I 
couldn’t wait ... it ’s only ten o’clock, the ball isn’t 
half started. How I will be able to put up with it 
another four hours—God in Heaven, help me! Come, 
Jock, and give your mistress a kiss ... if they only 
knew—those fools up there—how we get on down 
here. ...” 

She kissed him and he got up and looked out of the 
door; seeing nobody, he came back and sat down beside 
her. 

“What is the matter? don’t you want me to kiss you? 
Well, do or don’t—I’m mistress here! nobody’s going 


Jock the Lady Killer 


109 


to interfere . . . are you afraid I’ll lose my reputa¬ 
tion? ...” 

She shrugged at the thought. 

“Well, we godda take care. ...” 

“No, we don’t. What are you looking at?” 

She followed his gaze. She had lifted her cigarette 
to her lips . . . her hand was covered with flashing 
jewels. They took his eye. Greedily, in the semi¬ 
light, he saw emeralds, diamonds— 

“Do you want one of those? Ssh . . . I’ll give you 
that as a souvenir . . . don’t let anyone see it, they 
know the Countess Gisella’s jewel box pretty well.” 
The emerald ring lay in his palm . . . before accept¬ 
ing it, he lifted her hand and inspected the balance of 
the stones insolently. . . . 

“Wotcha got there? ruby, is it?” 

“Ruby, yes. ...” 

The emerald was far more valuable. She closed his 
hand over it. . . . 

“You don’t wanna give me that? why—why—” he 
protested the gift with well-played modesty. 

She assured him it was her little gift, insisted, kissed 
him again. . . . 

“Jock—my God, they’ll miss me! where is my head? 
I forget everything when I am in here!” . . . 

And so, actually carried away by her own interest 
in the man who was stimulating her, vilely, unnaturally, 
in her lower nature,—she ran back the way she had 
come. . . . 

Once he went so far as to embrace her, after such 
a scene ... he played too well—was actually trem¬ 
bling with the passion she brought out in him. . . . 
But she raised her crop and struck him a blow in the 
face that paralyzed him! 

“Have I hurt you? I didn’t mean to hurt you. . . . ” 

He understood this vaguely: the old warning, I will 
take as I please, but you are the inferior, you will allow 


110 Merry-Go-Round 

me to take, but never presume! And he carried the 
welt with him for a week. . . . 

She was falling more deeply into the cesspool . . . 
she was running in at all hours—when not actually on 
her horse—to see him, throwing over engagements, 
making opportunities. . . . Less and less did reputa¬ 
tion matter. The tie with the Count von Hohenegg 
was becoming very irksome. . . . She sat in the straw 
and loved Jock, and the horses looked on, but not the 
other groom—since he had been given notice to vacate 
the stable on these occasions on penalty of losing his 
job; and Jock would have discharged him ... he 
could now go to any lengths; Gisella was falling the 
victim to her own passions. . . . 

On the day she decided that, if possible, she would 
throw over everything for his sake, only one thing 
stood on her conscience. . . . She was devout—in re¬ 
ligion as in corruption; the thought that something she 
was planning was outside the tenets of her church, led 
her to St. Stephen’s . . . she would go to confession 
and see if this weight remained on her conscience. The 
elopement she had no notion of giving up. But her 
oath to Franzl and her father—yes, decidedly, why not 
confess she had no interest in the man she was en¬ 
gaged to ? 

The more reckless a disposition is, the more domi¬ 
nated by church fears if the upbringing has been ortho¬ 
dox and the symbol sits over the mantelpiece, on the 
dressing-table, in the prayer-book on the table and 
rites and formulas and what not. . . . 

Gisella ordered her carriage ... it was near the 
end of June . . . she rode forth. . . . 

And coming away from the Stephansdom, fate 
gave her the opportunity she was looking for— 
in her liveried equipage where Jacob and Rudolf 
wore light riding boots with dark tops, gray coats 
and cockaded hats. . . . Franzl, on the Stephans- 


Jock the Lady Killer 


111 


platz, with a shabby stranger, but a woman all the 
same! 

Franzl? what was he doing with the girl, young and 
good-looking and shabby? . . . His taste—she laughed 
—went down the scale like her own. 

Let’s see where they made their rendezvous? 

She followed them over the Ferdinandsbriicke, where 
something happened—something appalling she wanted 
to forget! . . . the carriage swayed drunkenly and she 
had to admonish Jacob, actually, how to drive her . . . 
and the man she was engaged to went into a splendid 
mansion, taking his cheap little girl along with him. . . . 


XV 


VIOLIN AND BOW 

Franzl’s favourite liqueur was Kontuschovka\ 
Madame Elvira inclined to Danziger Goldwasser * 2 . 
However, she ordered tea on this occasion, specifically 
for three, with rum and lemon on the side, knowing 
that the count never touched rum in his tea, but she 
also understood the conditions of this meeting. . . . 

When the count entered with Agnes on his arm from 
the Fiaker at the curb, she was forced to hide a smile. 
Pretty the child was, no doubt of that, but of what 
stratum! She almost shivered to see the depth of his 
taste. . . . 

“Ah, my dear, what an honour,” she said senten- 
tiously, clasping in a confidential manner the hand 
Agnes bashfully held out to her and attempted to with¬ 
draw. . . . “Franzl has told me something of your 
trouble. It is most appalling. I am ready to do what 
I can. . . ” 

Elvira was in black taffeta, high-collared, with sleeves 
to the elbow, and she scarcely resembled by worthy 
daylight the equivocal duenna of the night . . . she was 
cunningly groomed, not to impress with her slyness or 
her vileness but with solidity—the official-of-Vienna’s 
wife to a nicety. Franzl could not have found her in a 
more becoming pose. . . . 

“We will go into the living-room, where you shall 
tell me all the details, dear child. How revolting! to 
have your good father in the city prison. ...” 

“He’s in the county jail now,” said Agnes, following 
her, backed up by Franzl. ... “I saw him for the 

*A Polish brandy. 

2 liqueur like Anisette with small particles of gold leaf, exported 
from Danzig. 

112 



Violin and Bow 


113 


first time today and he was on his way in the patrol. 
Do you really think there’s a chance to get ’im out?” 

“I shall do my best, and my husband will help me,” 
smiled Elvira. 

The tea came in. . . . 

u Sit here, my dear.” 

Agnes looked about the room, shyly, in awe. She 
had never been in an environment of such splendour 
before. . . . On the large grand piano in the corner 
a violin was resting, a sumptuous couch was in another 
corner thrown over with a velvet scarf. Mirrors, full 
length, and Persian silk rugs and damask draperies 
added to a most lavish interior. The chairs were fash¬ 
ioned in a period, laid in with gold leaf, the chande¬ 
liers were crystal. . . . 

“Tell me, dear child, now, how long did you say Mr. 
Urban had been in this trouble? and go into the details 
while we are having tea. . . What will you have— 
rum?” . . . 

Agnes was not sure. Elvira put in a liberal dose, 
satisfying, she knew, the designs of Franzl, whose eyes, 
although she kept her own on the tea things, she felt 
were fixed upon her. . . . To him she gave lemon, 
knowing his choice, and took, herself, cream. . . . 

“The fact is, we would do a great deal for Franzl. 
. . . he is such a fine fellow! My husband is quite 
wrapped up in him. . . .” 

Agnes started in with Huber and she gave the ac¬ 
count of the arrest all over again. She was so adroitly 
led by Elvira, who took the lead in everything, assum¬ 
ing the role with a facility that astonished Franzl, that, 
ere long, the tea was finished, the last details spoken 
and Elvira rose to her feet. 

“You children will have to amuse yourselves until I 
return ... I am going for Leopold myself. I am 
convinced from what you have told us a great injustice 
has been done, your father ought to be out of jail 


m 


Merry-Go-Round 


and I think Leopold can get him out. . . . So, there¬ 
fore, unless some unforeseen difficulty should arise, 

expect me with good news, well-” 

Franzl suggested, “ . . . not before an hour?” 
“No, no, I think not. It will be all of an hour. Do 
you mind, my dear?” She placed her arm with solici¬ 
tude about Agnes, drawing her to her. 

Agnes commenced to stammer. She was over¬ 
whelmed at this unaccustomed kindness— 

“Going yourself! Ooh, madame, if it will only help 

papa—if you only knew-” 

“Expect the best . . . remember I shall work for 
you!” 

Elvira rang for her hat, coat and gloves. 

“And now, my children, I leave you . . ” 

She gave Agnes a resounding smack . . . 

After Elvira had left, Franzl contrived to seat Ag¬ 
nes beside himself in as close a proximity as their chairs 
and acquaintance would provide. She was full of grati¬ 
tude . . . 

“Oh,” she said, and tears commenced to well into 
her eyes from the emotion of her thoughts,—“it is so 
wonderful to have a friend in need, like you . . . What 
would I do? I know nobody and the police are so— 
so— no one ever offered to help me before—without 
askin’ something in return . . . but you, you don’t. . .” 

Franzl grasped this unpleasant line of thought—to 
him. He shook his finger, simulating play, at her— 
“Don’t you be too sure about that, little one.” 

She looked at him with trusting eyes— 

“You might say so . . . but I know you wouldn’t 

“Is that so? You don’t know me well enough . . . ” 
“Yes, I do. This is simply wonderful!” 

Agnes rose to her feet and commenced with childish 
curiosity to inspect the furnishings . . . 

Meanwhile, Elvira had not left the house . . . She 




Violin and Bow 


115 


had walked as loudly as possible to the front door, 
opened and slammed it without going outside, removed 
her shoes with discretion and returned through the en¬ 
trance hall into an adjoining chamber—one apart from 
that just vacated but connected with it through a small 
door, tightly shut, but thin and not really more than a 
board partition . . . Through this she contrived to 
listen. There was a double purpose in this, one, her 
duty to Franzl in the pursuance of her business, the 
other, her pleasure toward herself, for Elvira, bred of 
the five-rouble house and the refined brothel, satiated 
her warped tastes in watching the advances of illicit 
love . . . 

She now settled herself to listen at intervals. In the 
rest periods, there was a couch in the small antecham¬ 
ber, a bottle of Cliquot, some cigarettes with her own 
monogram, and a copy of Freud! 

Elvira smiled delightedly. A good hour promised 
. . . She stretched out on the couch, her eyes on the 
“Interpretation of Dreams,” and her ears on the room 
nearby. 

“It must be wonderful to own nice things . . I never 
knew how poor we were until just this minute . . ” 

The conversation did not interest her. It was pre¬ 
liminary . . . 

Franzl replied: “I am not much better off than 
you, not much at least. I have sold a good many neck¬ 
ties of late and can afford a cab and a few pennies, but 
the fact is, wealth comes to so very few ... It is only 
us can appreciate it. 

She thought he was a pretty good liar. 

Agnes had not much further to say. Her conversa¬ 
tion was limited. She looked about, marking herself 
in a full-length mirror, turning away with less bouy- 
ancy from the inspection. . . The piano attracted her, 
she touched a few keys with her fingers very lightly. . . . 

“Do you play?” 


116 


Merry-Go-Round 


She shook her head. 

A thought struck him. This was a cold beginning. 
How to come to closer grips with the girl was not 
clear, yet—upon the piano lay the violin. Franzl could 
play—very well. He took up the instrument, tuned 
it with experienced fingers at the keyboard and com¬ 
menced to run over a chromatic scale. 

‘‘Oh, how I wish I could do that!” cried the girl, 
her eyes lighting. “I don’t play nothin’ but the grind- 
organ ... I always wished I did, but we never had 
the money ...” 

It was strange, but the moment she thought of Hu¬ 
ber, her language fell into the illiteracy of the Wurstel- 
prater. 

“What kind of pieces do you like the best?” 

“A waltz . . . sometimes in the evenin’ a strain 
comes with the wind into my ears from somewhere, an’ 
I could sing an’ cry—all at once.” She was on the 
verge of tears . . . 

Franzl, noting this and the sentimental strain in her, 
commenced to play the melody of the beautiful waltz 
of Strauss from “The Waltz Dream”: “Da Draussen 
im Duftenden Garten” He played with feeling, his 
rhythm was perfect . . . She stopped in ecstacy and 
stood where she was to listen. 

But these sounds, far from holding Elvira to 
the couch, caused her to arise with a cynical smile. 
What splendid methods he used, to be sure! play¬ 
ing on the emotions of the girl. . . . She swung 

herself to the key-hole of that thin partition and 
placed her eye to look out. . . . There stood 

Franzl, slowly advancing upon the girl. Presently he 
had crossed the room, playing directly to her, holding 
the instrument so close it was almost whispering into 
her ear. . . . Tears commenced to trickle down 

Agnes’ cheeks. Franzl finished the last strain, he felt 
her silence and replaced the violin softly ... he 


Violin and Bow 


117 


clasped her hands and started to kiss them, drawing 
her to him . . . 

“Agnes, tell me, have you ever loved anyone?” 

Still the affair was in its preliminaries, and Elvira 
returned to her couch. 

“Have you ever been in love?” 

“Yes,” answered Agnes, “of course. My mother 
and my father ...” 

He patted her hands— 

“I didn’t mean that, though ... I mean the love 
of woman for a man ...” 

“Why, yes . . . Bartholomew, the little hunchback 
that you met ... he loves me, he has told me so ... ” 

“Do you love him?” 

She nodded sagely—“He is the only friend I 
had . . . ” 

“Do you really know what love is?” 

“I—I think so.” 

“What is it?” 

“When you like someone so well that you’d do 
everything for him.” . , . 

Franzl gave the shabby-dressed little stranger with 
the beautiful face a searching look. His heart vacil¬ 
lated for one beat— 

“Do you love me, Agnes?” 

She thought, she was embarrassed, she looked up at 
him at last—and nodded . . . 

“Then, if you love me, you said you would do any¬ 
thing for me . . . Now I will ask you for a kiss ...” 

He drew her within the enclosure of his arm . . . 
she was pitifully shy, but lifted her lips obediently, like a 
child. He hesitated only the fraction of a second, then, 
pressing her with a sudden transport to his breast, he 
bent back her head, so deeply that she suffered, and 
kissed her with all the abandon of his strength! 

She felt a pang that was ecstacy and terrible pain! 
a quiver that ran through her body and rouged her 


118 


Merry-Go-Round 


face as unnaturally as if she had used unfamiliar paste! 
She felt a danger and was ready to fly, and a weakness 
that rooted her to the ground . . . Under these emo¬ 
tions she was quite powerless and commenced to trem¬ 
ble so violently that he released her, saying “Are you 
hurt?” in alarmed tones . . . 

But she was not hurt, only something had happened 
to her that was strange and awesome. She did not un¬ 
derstand and cried quietly, shaking her head . . . 

“I thought I had—had—-Agnes, don’t you love me?” 

But now she became frightened and retreated from 
him, remembering—this was the same passion, the 
same fright! She felt as if she were living it all over 
again—Huber, the vulgarity; Franzl, the refinement: 
it was all of one pattern. 

“Come, Agnes, don’t go away from me, if you love 
me ...” he followed her, he was growing more in¬ 
sistent with each step,—“I love you, I want you. You 
don’t know what love is or you wouldn’t go away 
from me . . .” Still she retreated . . . “Come, don’t 
be childish . . . look at me!” She looked. “You see 
I want you.” Desire was stamped on his features. “I 
am not playing. When I ask, I want.” . . . 

Panicstricken, she put her hands up in prayer to 
him—this man who pursued her, frightened her, whom 
she—she— But he made a lunge and took her rough¬ 
ly, almost beastially . . . “Oh-ho,” he laughed—“oh 
you little kidder! I see now through your game . . . 
you little would-be lily! you angel from the gutter 
heap ...” 

He caught her up deliberately and started with her 
toward the couch in the room, velvet-covered, appetis¬ 
ing and clean. 

Elvira listened to this from the other side of the 
room. She would have liked to be present. All the 
details were fascinating to her, like the game that little 
children play when they crave amusement and divert 


Violin and Bow 


119 


themselves—marbles, basketball, toys! But as hard 
as she listened, she heard nothing . . . and a few mo¬ 
ments passed in absolute and astounding silence. A 
blanket seemed to have fallen upon the whole sordid 
scene, and whatever Franzl was attempting, nothing 
came from beyond the door,—a whole hour in a few 
seconds swallowed up in the expectation of some dark 
purpose and event . . . 

Franzl had laid Agnes on the couch. He was throb¬ 
bing and his temples expanded until the blood seemed 
to focus there from his whole body. She was still . . . 
she turned her face to the wall . . . 

A moment comes in the life of everyone when strug¬ 
gle becomes vain, the Fates take charge—life moves or 
does not move according to chance and not according 
to conscious will or the last atom of the expended 
strength. 

When Franzl leaned over the pitiful figure on the 
couch, he observed her worn skirt, her frayed sleeves, 
the hard contours of her boots and the abundant wavy 
hair of the dark head against the blue background . . . 
He was perplexed. Again the same indecision, the 
pause to consider what he had always passed over with 
a shrug—virtue or non-virtue in a woman . . . What 
mattered it? And yet—now the satisfaction was at 
hand, he could not brazenly go forward in defiance of 
a newly arisen—with this girl—almost delicate scru¬ 
ple ... It might have been the very weakness of the 
prey in his clasp, like the last faint flutterings of a 
sparrow . . . 

His words rang in her ears: she was a kidder and 
had a game to play! 

Slowly the head on the splendid sofa moved, she 
looked at him— 

“And I thought you were so different . . . But you 
were right in saying—that I didn’t—know—you— 


120 


Merry-Go-Round 


A world of regret was in her tones, a sigh escaped 
her lips, the blue eyes, filled with reproach, gazed sadly 
into his . . . “You are like all the rest—like Huber 
and—all the balance, just the same ... I thought— 
but it’s all gone now. My dream is over—it’s been 
nothing but a dream.” . . . The blue eyes swam slow¬ 
ly in tears, she was silently weeping. 

And the mistress of the establishment where lavish 
love existed and small passions were as easily satisfied 
in an atmosphere of wealth and a costly setting, seeing 
Franz hesitate, now saw his face harden, he grimaced 
as if whatever had been spoken applied to him person¬ 
ally and was repugnant, and he placed his knee on the 
couch . . . —when a slight sound in the room caught 
his attention. It was a noise like a single rap on a pane 
of glass with a blunt instrument . . . He caught him¬ 
self and drew back, commencing to look about the 
room . . . such a little noise it was! 

Small things attract the attention, a draught of wine 
can upset a kingdom. 

Franzl recognised presently what had happened—the 
“A” string on the violin had snapped from strain and 
was curling up around the handle of the instrument. 

When these things occur they are taken by many 
people as a sign or a signal, and can break a spell more 
easily than whole forces of arms or the pleas of a pretty 
woman. And so Franzl, seeing what had happened to 
the violin that had just played a lovely tune, was robbed 
of his desire to commit a fault which a moment before 
held so much importance ... It was the snapping of 
a string—the very first chord of Agnes’ disillusion¬ 
ment—that was to Franzl the symbol of his act: to 
destroy the beautiful instrument, with strings as fine 
as a violin, as taut, as easily played upon by the hands 
of men—the soul of a woman. 


XVI 


“out there in the blossoming garden” 

Elvira was disgusted by what she termed in her own 
mind maudlin sentiment, out of place with gay young 
pigeons, and so forth and so forth . . . She put on 
her things as the hour had passed and rapped at the 
door. 

Franzl was rising from his knees. 

Having asked for pardon for his words and receiv¬ 
ing it from Agnes, he helped her to straighten herself 
and the couch, and opened the door to the hallway . . . 

“Well, I am all out of breath! I have been hurrying 
so fast that it is necessary for me to sit down ... I 
shall be unable to talk for five minutes.” Elvira ex¬ 
aggerated her mock errand and was perfectly ready 
arid able to go right on. “Have you children managed 
to find something interesting in each other’s company? 
I was sorry to leave you, my dear. Come, I haven’t 
embraced you.” 

She felt a wicked desire, in thus taking Agnes to 
her breast, in levelling, over her head, certain darts at 
the count, betraying to him that she thought he was 
about the most consummate idiot in all the world. 

“Come, Franzl, did you show Miss Urban the wall¬ 
paper and the ceiling? or did you play the piano and 
sing? What did you do that was wicked? nothing? 
... I declare! . . . My dear child, I have arranged 
it all . . . my husband has taken over the entire mat¬ 
ter, your father will be out tomorrow. Franzl, will 
you see to it—that Mr. Urban is taken down to his 
daughter tomorrow? The release has gone in, you 
have only to see Leopold and he will tell you what 

121 


122 Merry-Go-Round 

further action takes place tomorrow ... I am very 
sorry that it is too late today. 

“Come again, and don’t fail us, Franz . . . you 
have a habit of late—well ...” she shrugged her 
shoulders, looking at him with open contempt, “you 
don’t always carry out—er—” Reassuming the role 
of the commissary’s wife, she added: “But in this 
case, as there is a pretty girl, perhaps you will keep it 
in mind ...” 

“I will keep it in mind,” responded Franzl coolly. 

“And I want to thank you, with all my heart!” Ag¬ 
nes cried; “you have been so-” 

“Don’t mention it, my dear.” 

“My father will want to come and thank you him¬ 
self.” 

“Oh, as to that,” said Elvira, slyly, “we never re¬ 
ceive bribes . . . Franzl will pay the bill—if he 
hasn’t forgotten how to collect.” . . . 

Agnes, understanding nothing, looked her thanks, 
kissed Elvira again and went from the house with 
Franz Meier. 

They did not continue together to the Wurstelpra- 
ter. At the Fiaker Franz took her hand,—“I am sorry, 
Agnes, for what I said. I didn’t mean one word . . . 
and if I did, I now know better. You have promised 
to forgive me. I love you and I want to see you 
again ... It will be tomorrow, and then—then—if 
you feel that you do forgive me ... if you have one 
particle of love left for me, I won’t ask—I’ll just— 
wait ...” He gave the cabby the fare for her 
return . . . 

“And now—good-bye ...” he lifted her hand, as 
he would that of a great lady, to his lips . . . She 
saw him wistfully looking after her as the coachman 
whipped up his horse. 

The following day passed in dreary monotony for 
Agnes. She remembered his kiss on her hand and in- 



Out There in the Blossoming Garden” 


123 


spected the place to see if anything of the glorious mo¬ 
ment remained. She thought how he had lifted it—ex¬ 
actly as they did in the court... she saw his handsome 
head with the pained expression, as if he were a hurt 
child, bending over it . . . She was very much in love 
and wondered if Bartholomew, now that she realized it 
herself, could read it from her face. The hunchback 
was watching her closely, acting on the platform before 
Rossreiter’s, calling out his invitation to “walk right in 
. . . don’t push, there is a place for everyone!” in his 
usual droning tone and sending Boniface out with nuts 
to draw up children and attract old people to the con¬ 
cession . . . 

Huber kept his distance. She saw nothing 
of Huber, and awaited her father with much im¬ 
patience. 

The whole day passed. The night brought the usual 
clamour, bells ringing, barkers’ raucous voices, the 
swarms of the pleasure-seekers, and calm, beautiful 
evening in the Prater park. She even wandered in 
there, smelled the lilac bushes, purple and white, and 
so full of sweet, pungent odour that it seemed like a 
separate world—one full of incense and longing, warm 
tears of expectation and of joy; the chestnut trees hung 
their heavy and spreading branches overhead, acacias 
blossomed and the sky was like a vast, protecting shield 
spangled with stars, cool and shimmering in a thousand 
places . . . She wandered about and returned to the 
concession. 

Nine o’clock had come. Mrs. Rossreiter, having 
put another man at the Punch and Judy theatre, was 
exhibiting her own fat bulk, dancing up and down on 
her toes in ballet skirts and selling the tickets for her 
Wundersalon. She questioned her: 

“See anythin’ of ’em yet, honey? Where ’s your 
father? Think they’re cornin’yet? . . . well, now, I’d 
hate t’ see ya disappointed, but it’s gettin’ late . .‘. ” 


124 Merry-Go-Round 

Agnes had told her and Bartholomew of her father’s 
expected release. 

“He said he’d bring ’im and I know he won’t dis¬ 
appoint me/’ insisted Agnes doggedly, and hoped 
against hope the miracle would happen so her faith in 
Franz Meier would be justified. 

But if it had not been, it probably would have made 
no difference. Love is all-forgiving ... it banishes 
sorrow and it glosses over doubt. 

Among the merrymakers one Fiaker is a good deal 
like another. The one-horse cab bringing Franzl and 
Sylvester drew up without notice and the occupants 
stepped out. Delayed at the Hofburg until two 
o’clock, the Fliigeladjutant had struck some of the legal 
tape which is like a ball with the nut in the center 
and must be unwound before the kernel is reached . . . 
and it was six hours before all points of the law were 
satisfied—that nothing had to be satisfied—and Sylves¬ 
ter was a free man! 

Agnes saw them first as Boniface made a spring from 
the platform and circled about their legs. Sylvester 
he knew, Franzl he took little notice of, but crept up 
and sat, to the amusement of the crowd, his head cocked 
underneath the grotesque liberty cap and his mouth 
moving over and over, making little nickering sounds 
at the former manipulator of marionettes . . . When 
this attracted her attention and she spied Sylvester, she 
ran forward and embraced him with a glad cry— 

“Papa! I am so happy ... I have been waiting! 
Papa, it is so good to see you ...” She kissed his 
hands and face, stroking his cheek, resting her head one 
moment against his coat and the next against his arm, 
and repeating over and over, “You came, you came, 
you came! . . . ” 

The fat lady also saw him, and Batholomew, who 
cut his spiel short in the middle and then turned his 
gaze to the man who had brought Sylvester, toward 


“Out There in the Blossoming Garden” 125 

whom he had developed the suspicious feeling of a love- 
rival since his first night on the Prater in April. A 
weird expression came into Bartholomew’s astounded 
eyes and he found himself paralyzed all at once! . . . 
This young man who was so discreetly holding himself 
in the background, smiling shyly, and with little dirty 
children and coarse wet-nurses and soldiers from Mo¬ 
ravia pressing against him in the intimacy of warm 
June night air in the public walk of the pleasure ground, 
dust being kicked up, cries of cheap circus attractions, 
the smell that goes with excitement and rabble, and 
peppermint stick-candies being licked by tongues of 
urchins like calves, and their mothers and big sisters 
like cows, standing with their hands on their hips be¬ 
neath puffed out bosoms and mouths open, drinking in 
the noise of the concessionaires and the dust!—he saw 
him there, the tall, upright figure in checked suit, well¬ 
fitting, with cuffs on the trousers, his hat and cane in 
his hand and moustache waxed in the Austro-French 
shape— “Es ist Erreicht! ,n —as if he were a Life Guard 
Mounted and rode on the Parforce Hunt 1 2 ... or a 
high official entering the palace, when a sentinel would 
cry out— 

“Geweeeehr—herauuuussss ! >>z 

Or he might be an emperor’s Kammerer 4, 4 with 
eighteen generations of ancestry behind him and a gold 
key at the waist . . . The Trahanten 5 wore such mous¬ 
taches when they marched before the Bellario, near 
where the Mariahilferstrasse joins the Ringstrasse, 
passing Breitengasse in their mediaeval scarlet coats 
with gold breasts, white tights and Stulpenstiefel 6 , and 
spiked helmets with white flowing horse-hair plumes, 

1 it is accomplished! 

2 cross-country fox chasing. 

^Rifles Out! the salute for personages. 

4 chamberlain at the court. 

8 ancient life guards. 

®tall boots. 



126 


Merry-Go-Round 


the tallest and handsomest men in the army—like this 
young man, who was so straight and as tall as a pop¬ 
lar !—the Helbard 1 carriers, passing from the Burg to 
their armory on gala occasions such as the Corpus 
Christi festival . . . 

Bartholomew remembered especially the last Corpus 
Christi procession when he stood on the Breitengasse 
before the armory and watched them pass in. It was 
a great sight and the working people held their breaths 
in awe . . . The procession had just taken place and 
was disbanding. The Church of Rome observed the 
doctrine of the Eucharist the first Thursday after 
Trinity Sunday—an established custom dating back be¬ 
fore the Hapsburg dynasty to 1264—the Hapsburgs 
came on in 1276—from the time of the Pope Urban 
IV . . . 

The wind was blowing gently though the day was 
warm. It always blew in the Bellario and he thought 
he could smell the violets from the Wiener Wald. 
Everybody sniffed, passing here, and they inhaled with 
great satisfaction; but it was probably the pungent 
odour of manure coming out of the imperial and royal 
stables quartered near . . . the crispness of the win¬ 
ter’s snows could not even blanket that when the breeze 
fluttered in exactly the right direction . . . 

After the Trabanten came a fine livery with two 
horses and the Hapsburg coat-of-arms, clattering by, 
on the way to the corso . . . for, even on holy days, 
children from the family of the court had to have an 
airing, so the nurse rode, taking the salutes by the side 
of the imperial and royal baby—some young boy who 
would grow to be a man about court, high and mighty 
and with privileges of the rich and just such a 
moustache I 

And so powerful is the association of thoughts, that 
Franzl’s military moustache, waxed “Es ist Erreicht!” 


a battle-ax. 



“Out There in the Blossoming Garden” 127 

gave Bartholomew a whole three minutes of musing as 
the Count von Hohenegg stood in the Volksprater and 
the lower classes swam about him who served the 
meekest among them and pretended to be of her level. 

Agnes felt the impulse to embrace him . . . She 
grasped his hand and tried to bring her lips to it in 
gratitude, but he prevented this by keeping his arm 
down at his side by force and protesting—“It is noth¬ 
ing . . . really, it is nothing . . . ” 

Her eyes brimmed over. She took her father’s arm 
and drew them both with her. 

“Let us go in . . . this noise, I cannot hear ... it 
is so good to have you back again, papa, and Mrs. 
Rossreiter says your old job is yours ... a new man 
runs the Punch and Judy, from Astarte’s, but he’s no 
good ... he doesn’t know the first thing and the 
kids don’t come any more and look on as they used 
to ... he don’t make anybody laugh ...” 

She was chattering, drawing them both along— 

“ . . . they don’t sit on the benches an’ goo like 
when you did it . . . see, papa, everybody missed you, 
Boniface has been so cranky of late ... he almost bit 
Huber yesterday . . . well, he teases him, it isn’t 
right, and pulls his tail . . . Are you hungry? do you 
want me to get you some Wiirstchen 1 right out of the 
water, hot? there’s a man with a wagon outside ...” 
Sylvester patted her hand— 

“No, no, you go on . . . I’m all right . . . I’ll just 

go and see-” and he started off behind the little 

theatre where the marionettes were lying limp, and 
picked up a tiny rabbit, hopping there, and took him 
with him in his arms to put into the circus with the little 
actors . . . His eyes were wet and he was anxious to 
recover himself . . . 

Agnes watched him go. 


Sausages. 




128 


M erry-Go-Round 


“Poor papa . . it’s been a fearful thing, this sittin’ 
in prison ...” She turned to Franz. All at once 
they were dumb. In the great clamour of the Wurstel- 
prater they felt as if only two stood there—themselves, 
isolated from everything else, life, gaiety, noise, racket 
. . . silence fell between them and their arms, which 
had been locked, and their hands, dropped apart . . . 

Sometimes the heart is too full to express even a 
tithe of what it holds and the lips tremble but cannot 
articulate and the temples grow moist . . . 

Standing side by side, a similar impulse moved them 
both—out of that babel of sounds and quantities of 
people, to step into the quiet garden by themselves . . . 
to have just this sweet moment in common, to press 
each other’s hands and to sigh in the stillness ... to 
see the Riesenrad in the distance, revolving its tiny 
lights, and the giant chestnut spreading overhead . . . 
to smell the lilac and sit among the acacia in solitude 
and peace . . . 

They went out of the concession—at the foot of the 
stairways was no one—they went past the stairways 
and through the dim little alley and the gate of the 
garden, along the shimmering path . . . Shadows fell 
upon the path, moving, tiny blossoms, sprinkling 
through the air invisible showers of perfume like the 
streaming censers of a church . . . the air became 
heavy ... In the park, before the trunk of their 
chestnut tree, was a bench. They sea-ted themselves 
here, arms entwined, drinking in the fragrance and 
softness of the night. 

Underneath their feet the crickets chirped; above 
was the song of the nightingale . . . The moon shone 
on the three-quarter, shedding a silver, half-invisible 
ring into the fringe of clouds travelling over to the 
clear dome beyond . . . 

From the gay spendthrift of love and his chattel, 
these two were transformed into equals—lovers. They 


“Out There in the Blossoming Garden” 


129 


stood on one footing, or, if there were any advantage, 
it was in her favour ... he hung upon her words. 
She pointed her lips and he kissed them; she placed her 
head tenderly on his breast, he caressed it . . . The 
true passion of their love had levelled their stations, 
and, guided only by nature, and with no motive except 
such as is written in the book of time and which stands 
for generation after generation, immutable, holy, 
changeless as the restless sea, and everlasting,—they 
clasped hearts and mated under the pure evening 
light . . . 


XVII 


SERAJEVO 

In the south of Austria-Hungary and much nearer 
Belgrade, which is in Serbia, than Vienna, was the city 
frequently called “The Damascus of the North,” spread 
over a narrow valley closed on the east by a semi-circle 
of rugged hills . . . Though oriental and wholly 
beautiful with its Turkish bazaar, hundred mosques 
with minarets like church steeples above them, wooden 
houses and cypress groves, Serajevo was largely rebuilt 
in the latter part of the last century in the European 
fashion . . . 

There remains, however, still the Sinan Tekke, which 
is the Dervish monastery and, in contrast, upon a cliff 
commanding a complete view of the city, the castle 
and barracks of an Austrian garrison of troops . . . 

In the latter part of June, when the court of Vienna 
was planning to remove to Schonbrunn, the emperor’s 
summer residence, the Hauptallee was flowing with 
carriages of the rich and the Wurstelprater held its 
motley assemblage of the pleasure-seeking poor, this 
Austrian garrison received word or heard the rumor, 
which was in effect through “The Damascus of the 
North,” that a great state visit was to take place,—an 
envoy of Vienna was on the way to Bosnia and the 
country was to prepare for open hospitality and cele¬ 
bration . . . The troops polished their bayonets and 
buttons, their commander had his gala uniform brushed 
and sponged, flags were hoisted—the red-white and 
black-yellow of the dual monarchy,—and the Austrian 
Daimler car of the governor general was gotten ready 

130 


Serajevo 


131 


to meet the envoy and conduct him in state through 
the crowded streets. 

These preparations were made. 

But in the Turkish quarter still the dark lanes were 
lined with booths that catered to the daily trade; silks 
and embroideries were sold ... the baths remained 
open and had their usual clientele. The perfumed cafes 
swung their doors with the same quiet custom, the 
patrons came and went and talked of everything but 
the Austrian envoy . . . this meant nothing to them— 
they were ruled through the mosques of their religion 
and kept the peace of the government that was so many 
miles away in Vienna and cared nothing for the doings 
of a few silent Turks in Serajevo. 

The ruins of the Romans who conquered through 
here before the time of the first Hapsburg by a thou¬ 
sand years, crumbled caverns and towers of dust, re¬ 
mained as mute as ever, hiding places for antiquity and 
never disturbed by celebration, but only by the quiet 
students from the great university and far-off profes¬ 
sors who came to search and delve, but never flew their 
nations’ flags or emitted a single cheer . . . 

In the Dervish monastery of Sinan Tekke a cere¬ 
mony was in progress. 

Anyone passing the doors would have thought the 
envoy was already inside, for here, in truth, was the 
sound of a great revelry and of cries and crowds and 
mad orgies to have satisfied the most gala event . . . 
for it was the day of atonement in the religion of these 
monks, when they prayed, gyrated and punished them¬ 
selves,—the day of repentance, of the freeing from sin, 
purging . . . and they turned, leaped in fantastic cos¬ 
tumes, pirouetted, screamed and howled, one about the 
other in a circle, then separately and more enthusiasti¬ 
cally until their feet seemed to leave the ground alto¬ 
gether and they spun dizzily in space, ten, twenty, a 
hundred, five hundred times without stopping or at- 


132 


Merry-Go-Round 


tempting to rest . . . And all this without sinking 
down, becoming worn or giving out . . . the most fan¬ 
tastical custom in the world, the most terrible religious 
ceremony because it attains the highest ecstacy: the 
Dancing Dervishes of Bosnia! . . . 

Europeans are never allowed to behold this ceremony. 
The envoy from Vienna could not have seen it . . . 
He was travelling south on his imperial and royal train 
with his wife, his suite, chamberlains, aides and impe¬ 
rial dignitaries,—but he could not behold what was 
happening in his own possession, in a city he had an¬ 
nexed by the power of the greater over the weaker and 
his position as heir to the throne of Austro-Hungary. 
. . . It was His Imperial Highness,. Archduke Franz 
Ferdinand of Austria, d’Este, the nephew of Franz- 
Josef I, who was making an ill-advised visit to Bosnia 
for no other purpose than to see the results of the con¬ 
flict between two kinds of Slavs warring silently be¬ 
tween themselves in this province,—the Catholic Slavs 
against the Orthodox Slavs, or, in other words, one 
kind of Slavs against the other; and the reason was that 
the Slavs who followed the first church were praying 
according to the Austrian custom and those who fol¬ 
lowed the second were praying according to the Ser¬ 
bian, each jealous of the other and both determined to 
reach Heaven in their own ways. . . . 

Franz Ferdinand had a leaning toward the Austrian 
Slavs. His wife was a Bohemian, the Countess Chotek, 
elevated to rank by the emperor as the Duchess Hohen- 
berg . . . Her devotion to Franz Ferdinand was an 
open topic of conversation in Vienna court circles. . . . 

By downing the Serbian Slavs the Austrians would 
come up, and, like the water in a tube which flows out 
from the opposite end where it is depressed,—the arch¬ 
duke raised the standing of his Austrian house by de¬ 
pressing the enemy. But it was not a good thing for 
him to be too close to Serbia—to the province of Bos- 


Serajevo 


133 


nia, which was annexed to Austria against its will, and, 
especially, not too close to Serajevo! 

But the Austrian garrison of troops would see to it 
that the City of Palaces 1 welcomed its future ruler with 
decorations and acclaim! . . . flags flew from build¬ 
ings, hung into the streets—splashes of colour that 
showed the intense patriotism of the people, according 
to the soldiers! and the bands of music stirred up en¬ 
thusiasm, filling the streets with people, the sidewalks, 
the steps of the mosques, the hills overlooking the city 
and the limbs of tall trees in the cypress groves. . . . 

The law students paraded with an arm on the shoul¬ 
der of each other in single file behind the bands, happy 
of a chance to sing and shout . . . Students are the 
same the world over and Moslem law students in Bos¬ 
nia are very occidental, growing up in Europe. . . . 

The river Miljacka flowed along its banks, watering 
the city; the railroad came in from Bosna-Brod, over 
which the archduke rode in his special train of sleepers 
and diner and princely equipment . . . Austrian arch¬ 
dukes have always travelled like kings and this one was 
almost on the throne, being the heir of a very aged 
man and considering himself the real ruler. . . . His 
wife thought likewise, she was proud and haughty . . . 
and the train leaped over the rails, casting off steel dust 
and drawing into the city that was full of excitement— 
of one kind or another—to receive the envoy. . . . 

Every country has its revolutionists. 

It is not to be thought that Bosnia was without them. 
Secret societies were flourishing, young students joined 
them, spoke against one government until they got an¬ 
other, railed against that,—and so it goes . . . The 
secret societies of Bosnia were the Orthodox Slavs— 
young, fine fellows, educated to think and thinking that 
they were oppressed and should never have been an- 


a palaces, from Serai, the Turkish word,—Serajevo. 



134 


Merry-Go-Round, 


nexed to Austria-Hungary against their will. If they 
were Austrian subjects it was not their fault. . . . 

Two of these, especially, were very fanatical on the 
subject. The names were Cabrinovic and Princep, 
names taken, evidently, to correspond to the precepts 
of their society. It stood for freedom in everything— 
not unusual with such societies—the Nihilists were the 
same in Russia and the Sinn Fein in Ireland. It stood 
for principle. Principle—Princep! 

The young man whose name was Princep, and who 
understood so well the principle of life that he could 
take it in his own hands, was young, swarthy, medium¬ 
sized, moustached, zealous, brave and really fearless 
as a lion. . . . 

He undertook the duty—having been elected to the 
position by his society—to judge the government in 
Austria . . . And he judged and condemned—in his 
own mind . . . and so he took out his modern revol¬ 
ver with automatic rapid-fire chambers, and oiled it, 
made ready, loaded it,—and he took his place among 
the spectators on the parade street to see His Imperial 
Highness, Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his morgan¬ 
atic wife, the Duchess Hohenberg, with the military 
governor of Bosnia and an aide, ride by in the gov¬ 
ernor’s Austrian car. . . . 

He stood next to his friend, Cabrinovic, also armed, 
who was behind a line of policemen who were preceded 
by a cordon of soldiers . . . The red-white and black- 
yellow flags from a neighbouring building were hang¬ 
ing down into his face. He must have been glad of 
this, because, while the flags represented his enemies, 
still they hid his face and jacket from the police. And 
underneath the jacket was—the revolver. . . . 

What followed is well known. A full conspiracy 
was afoot ... A line of bomb-throwers was at one 
end of the march. School-girls with arranged bouquets 
were at another. A man with a dagger was also on 


Serajevo 


135 


the street, and it is even said that the dogs of Serajevo 
were corrupted and held on leashes, mad, to launch at 
the throats of the archduke and duchess if every other 
means failed! . . . 

But of all this mortal preparation, Princep, the 
“principle” of his society, struck the blow that ended 
by freeing his country from Austrian domination. . . . 

He waited until the cheering from the stimulated 
crowd rose to its climax—the royal party was just be¬ 
fore, passing . . . nobody saw him, all were too busy 
cheering . . . and the soldiers allowed him to slip in 
between their ranks, level his revolver coolly and fire 
point-blank at the saluting Archduke Franz Ferdinand! 

The shot rang out! The people scattered . . .the 
troops looked on. Before anyone could hold his arm 
or deflect his aim, he had killed the duchess, who had 
thrown herself before her husband to shield him, killed 
the archduke and was still shooting! . . . 

The excitement of the populace turned to amaze¬ 
ment, the amazement into riot. The police closed in, 
the troops took the murderer. . . . 

A succession of explosions like the back-firing of an 
engine or the rattle of machine-gun fire . . .si¬ 
lence . . . screams . . . pandemonium! 

A young man thinks he has done his duty,—and the 
guards have hustled him to jail. . . . 

Slumped over are the proud figures in the Austrian 
Daimler which is being driven to the governor’s resi¬ 
dence, known in Serajevo as the Konak, but now more 
nearly resembling a morgue! and the Dancing Derv¬ 
ishes in the Sinan Tekke have gone ’round and ’round 
and ’round. . . . 

An epic in history has been made! 


XVIII 


THE MERRY-GO-ROUND GOES ’ROUND 

On coming back to the Wurstelprater, Sylvester did 
not take over his old job at the marionettes. He be¬ 
came a comic dancer, which means wearing a clown’s 
costume, whitening the face, drawing black lines around 
in imitation of a big mouth, a pug nose, squint eyes, 
very long and flat, and an artificial round curl like a 
scroll on the forehead. 

Sylvester danced. He stood on the platform beside 
the fat woman, Mrs. Rossreiter, and underneath the 
heavy metal sign reading “WXJNDERSALON ” with 
the balance of her attractions and name, and attached 
to the boards above her concession with thin steel wires 
caught into hooks,—played a guitar at intervals and 
sang. Then he lifted his comic full trousers, big and 
baggy and fastened around his feet with ruffles, spread 
them out on both sides of him, and pirouetted, making 
the pantomimes of a hilarious jackanapes or a drunken 
fellow, as the crowd might relish. . . . 

He drew a crowd. Before the booth was a swarming 
congestion of the Pratervolk x , big and little, but mostly 
little, laughing at his antics and kicking up a whirl of 
dust trying to imitate him. . . . 

Huber’s concession next door was empty. Try as 
he would, the owner of the Kraftsmaschine and Ringel- 
spiel could not draw. He did not know what was the 
cause of the poor attendance nor the large crush before 
the neighbouring concession, but he determined to find 
out ... So dense was the throng that the lower por¬ 
tion of Sylvester’s body was completely hidden; only 


1 pcoplc on the Prater. 


136 



The Merry-Go-Round Goes ’Round 


137 


his face showed with the outstanding and ridiculous 
ruffle about the neck under the chin, and so painted was 
it, Huber did not recognize for several minutes the 
features of his late enemy . . . And when he did so, a 
spasm of anger shook him that caused his face to turn 
as pale as the clown’s mask before him! 

On stepping on the platform, Sylvester carried 
with him a heavy heart. The recent end of his suffer¬ 
ing wife and Agnes’ bitter experience with Huber, aside 
from his eight weeks in prison, had unnerved him. . . . 
He shook and trembled, and it was the best thing that 
he could really dance, since otherwise he would have 
jerked from palsy from overwrought nerves and prob¬ 
ably cried all day. 

As it was, a tear stood in either eye. He controlled 
himself but gave vent to his feelings under the guise 
of comedy and laughter—wore a smile on his lips, 
skipped, laughed hysterically and so tragically that the 
crowds swarmed in on the false jangle and absurdity 
of his act. 

Sylvester threw them kisses...bowed and made pa¬ 
thetic grimaces... It is a fact that most of the jolly fel¬ 
lows in this world have aching hearts, and they laugh 
the hardest to cover up their hurts. 

Huber elbowed in and looked up into his face— 
Bartholomew was just then barking— 

“Meine Harrschaften, kassa, kassa! soeben ist An- 
fang und Beginn —Signor Sylvestro Urbani—direct 
from Italy—the greatest bajazzo livin’!”—introduc¬ 
ing Sylvester in this manner. . . 

Huber turned to the crowd, his temper getting the 
better of him: “Italy—hell! Doncha know the diff’r- 
ence between a Bo-heme an’ a wop? This guy usta 
work at the Punch an’ Judy—don’t let ’em foolya! He 
ain’t no wop!” . . . 

“He is so! Wadda you doin’ here, Schani Huber?” 
shrieked the fat woman in high tones: “you get th’hell 


138 Merry-Go-Round 

oudda here an’ take care o’ your own booths—this ain’t 
your business, is it?” 

“Ain’t it, showin’ up your dirty dealin’s to the 
crowd?” 

“Look out for y’r own!” 

“Mine ain’t dirty.” 

“Oh, ain’t they? Get out an’ stay out, an’ spit in 
your own groun’s . . . an’ that’s final . . . Boniface, 
come here! Boniface! . . 

The orang-utang had made a leap after the Karussell 
proprietor, as he went off swinging his cane, after kick¬ 
ing him and bucking him with his foot to the amaze¬ 
ment of the audience that was waiting for Sylvester to 
dance. 

Schani Huber saw coming into his own concession, 
where a handful of people sat on the merry-go-round 
waiting for it to turn, a medium-sized individual 
in rather neat civilian clothes for the Wurstelprater, 
well-pressed, and with a puzzled look on his square 
peasant’s face. He carried two pasteboard boxes, 
one under each arm, the one under the right arm 
long and slender, that under the left arm short and 
square. . . 

This individual stood and looked, if possible, in two 
directions at once, as he was cross-eyed, and he also 
turned his head, first one way, then the other, with a 
puzzled expresssion. 

The confusion of the barkers and Huber’s bawling 
voice, soliciting trade, confused him all the more as he 
was not seeking pleasure but some other chance god¬ 
dess,—and he strode up to the wooden cage where 
Marianka, the wife of Huber sat selling tickets . . . 
only she was not selling them now. Business was not 
rushing. 

Huber, blowing his starting whistle, commenced to 
grind the organ. . . . 

“Say once, is it here that a certain Fraiilein Agnes 


The Merry-Go-Round Goes ’Round 


139 


Urban lives?” said the cross-eyed man to the ticket- 
woman. “She works for a place called Rossreiter’s.” 

He looked steadily at Marianka with his mouth re¬ 
maining open as if he were too dazed by some attraction 
he saw in her to close it. 

She commenced to blush— 

“Not here . . . next door. . . .” 

“Which way?” 

She pointed with her finger, “To the left. ...” I 

“And this . . . what is this?” 

“She used to work here,” commenced Marianka,— 
“but—but, it’s over there she works now . . . where 
you see the fat lady. That’s Mrs. Rossreiter herself, 
she’s the fat woman, an’ her father’s dancin’ on the 
front . . . he’s a clown, Sylvester Urban. . . .” 

“Um-hum. . . 

There were two or three people behind the talker 
at the ticket cage who intended to buy trips on the 
merry-go-round. Huber spied them and he spied the 
congestion ... he roared out without ceremony 
above the clatter and “Wiener Blut” 1 coming out in 
forced strains from the organ— 

“Hey, cut it—gedda move on! Marianka, du 
Frauenzimmer du . . . ich stopff dir das Maul zu 
wenn du nit schweigst!” 2 

This abuse, coming from such a far quarter, made 
Marianka blush still deeper with shame and she 
hoped the man before her would go away. But he 
still looked at her with his half-hesitant, half-hyp¬ 
notised stare. . . . 

“You want tickets?” 

He shook his head. 

What did he want? Was he looking for Agnes? 

“Hey, get through! . . . du Luder du . . . du 
gemeines—” Huber’s abuse reached filthy stages, 

*a popular waltz. 

2 vulgar German “Fool woman, shut up!” 



140 Merry-Go-Round 

and the stranger gave his wife a sympathetic 
glance. . . . 

“I feel sorry . . he commenced, “th-thanks, I 
think I can find it.” 

Embarrassed, he left, looking back at her. She 
was a young woman with her hair drawn away from 
her ears and an apron about her waist that was with¬ 
out stays and without too much fat. Her face had 
several scars that would never heal and her neck a 
fresh black and blue mark from Huber’s infernal abuse 
that would not have been noticed but she put her hand 
on it, self-consciously, all the time. 

Now, after selling her tickets and seeing the man 
with the bundles vanish, she perceived on the shelf be¬ 
fore her a little heap of peppermint candies, five or six, 
laid there just fresh. They were not there a moment 
before . . . She knew he had put them down without 
her notice. She placed one in her mouth, growing red 
about the neck again. 

The organ stopped and Huber approached her, say¬ 
ing, “Who was that?” 

“A man lookin’ for Agnes. I sent him over to Ross- 
reiter’s. ...” 

“Well, you done too much dam’ talkin’ and y’ lost 
me two customers. Cut it out next time . . . What’s 
he want o’ her?” 

Marianka shook her head, her face solemn again. 

“Know what he had?” 

“No.” 

He went off mumbling and in the meantime the 
stranger had crossed the little alley into the next con¬ 
cession. Overhead was the huge metal sign held by 
wires and screws to the roof of the two-story frame 
building. 

“ROSSREITER’S WUNDERSALON . . . 
DIRECT FROM PARIS!” 

He read this, speaking the words to himself, en- 


The Merry-Go-Round Goes *Round 


141 


quired for Agnes Urban and found her, and was pre¬ 
senting the two boxes he held, one long and narrow, the 
other square— 

“Mister Franz Meier, a friend of mine, sends this 
to you with best wishes. He wanted me to say he will 
come down himself this afternoon.” 

She was astonished and grew quite pale. She looked 
at the man as if it were a miracle anyone should know 
of her friendship with Mr. Franz Meier, ripened into 
the intimate relation of lovers since the night be¬ 
fore. . . . 

On the long box was written “Fossati . . . Imperial 
and Royal Court Supplier . . .” on the square one, 
“Gerstner’s . . .” with the same formula. 

“If—if you see your friend before I do, thank him 
for these boxes very much,” she stammered ... “I 
am much obliged. . . .” 

He made her a formal bow, stood very erect, 
thanked her and was off. 

Agnes took the boxes upstairs. She found inside 
“Fossati’s” a bouquet of fresh and sweet-smelling lilies- 
of-the-valley and violets, and, beneath these, a cluster 
of very exquisite shell-pink roses, each as perfect as a 
wax model, with a card “To my Beloved . . .” And 
the box marked “Gerstner’s” contained a choice assort¬ 
ment of bon-bons, candied fruits and nuts. She tasted 
one of these bon-bons, very hesitatingly . . . She was 
childish in her amazement and sat for ten minutes at 
least very quietly on her bed, motionless, absorbed in a 
dream picture of love, these dainty gifts and Franzl. 
.... She touched the lilies and experimented with a 
rose in her hair, and, finally, kissed the card softly and 
placed it in her bosom. . . . 

After the first moments, she went further, taking the 
ribbons that bound the boxes, getting out her little 
soldier-doll that was in such a dilapidated condition, 
but, being his very first gift, had the place of honor in 


142 


Merry-Go-Round 


her heart, and she tied the ribbons in various ways over 
the disordered body. They made a sash under his sor¬ 
rowful little broken face . . . but Agnes loved him the 
more for his disfigurements. This doll, since the first 
evening, had always remained hidden beneath her pil¬ 
low. She lifted him out occasionally and brushed his 
uniform over with her hands, held him up, felt the tears 
coming into her eyes and put him back in his place 
under the pillow. . . . 

The room was as squalid as formerly. She did not 
try to decorate the empty wooden walls with her 
flowers or set them about. She had no vase, there was 
no cup deep enough ... so she let them lay in the 
box, unsullied and perfect, their green oil-paper about 
them and the fashionable box of “Fossati” crying out 
for more decent surroundings . . . She must show 
them to Sylvester now . . . and Bartholomew, who 
would probably cry and groan, because she knew he 
loved her. But Franzl’s love for her would presently 
become known anyway and she had never given the 
hunchback the slightest reason to think— 

Agnes, who was about to run down the stairs with 
a very light heart in her bosom, heard a tremendous 
crash just at this instant sounding at her very feet. Her 
heart flew into her mouth. She stood perfectly still 
as the walls rattled around her. She heard sounds 
from the Prater—a mingling of many shouts, voices 
raised, the sudden end to the tin-pan music of the piano 
in Mrs. Rossreiter’s Wundersalon . . . . She was 
afraid to stir. . . . 

Standing there so still she had not realised, absorbed 
with her happiness, that a scratching sound had taken 
place on her roof before the great crash—a body had 
moved across it, squirming and remaining unseen from 
below, that this body had raised itself over the side 
ledge and looked into her window, that she was seen 
while her back was turned, crooning over her flowers, 


The Merry-Go-Round Goes y Round 


143 


and that the prowler was an enemy, whom, had she 
known he was there, would have given her grave con¬ 
cern. . . . 

But she saw neither the enemy nor heard the 
wires send out a metallic sound, vibrating from 
handling, loosening from the screws that held them, 
which, in turn, held the great square sign of the 
Wundersalon. 

Sylvester was dancing on the platform below. The 
sign, without warning, trembled and dropped, striking 
him from his feet as if he had been a ten-pin hurled 
into the air by a bowling ball, crashing his body along 
with itself into the street before the concession filled 
with pleasure crowds, stampeding and shouting! . . . 

The accident had happened so quickly that for a 
space of time nobody came to Sylvester’s assistance. 
He lay numb and still, the sign on top and only his legs 
sticking out as his head was crushed underneath. . . . 

When Bartholomew, who was the first to recover, 
came to him, he was almost completely out of sight. 
Spectators cried and groaned, but they were all too 
paralyzed by their escape to assist, until he cried, lifting 
the sign with his full strength at one end, “Pull him 
out! pull him out!” 

Then they all sprang in and pulled, the fat lady with 
them, and took the injured man from under ... the 
hunchback let the heavy sign fall again and shuddered 
from the strain of lifting it; he straightened and 
stretched, and without waiting to see if Sylvester were 
mortally injured, set off down the street for a police¬ 
man. . . . 

Sylvester with his crushed head was lifted tenderly 
to the platform. There he was in his fantastic costume. 

Agnes, whose breath had come fast and then slower, 
unable to understand what had happened in her room, 
ran down the steps . . . Swiftly, she was at the foot 
of the alley, crossed to the platform, and horrified and 


144 Merry-Go-Round 

unable to articulate, she saw the fat lady bending over 
Sylvester. 

“Aggie, Aggie,” whispered Mrs. Rossreiter, “y’r 
father’s done for, Sylvester’s done f’r, poor child, poor 
child. . . ” 

What followed was a nightmare of silence. Agnes 
neither heard nor saw the crowd on the Wurstelprater, 
wandering in and out, uttering little questions and 
curious answers. 

Nobody knew how the accident had happened ex¬ 
cept, Sylvester had been struck on the head by the sign 
which had become loosened in some manner from the 
roof, where it had always been secure . . . He had 
been thrown up and down as it bounced, and catapulted 
underneath. Moments passed in a void of agony when 
she realised nothing,—then the return of the hunchback 
with a policeman who summoned an ambulance . . . 
she rode with her father. Mrs. Rossreiter’s voice 
droned off in the distance and she saw Bartholomew 
standing with pitying eye. . . . 

And all during this time one accustomed figure was 
missing from the Wurstelprater. He slid from the 
roof above Rossreiter’s—over the room where she 
had been sitting with Franz Meier’s flowers and the 
candy from “Gerstner’s,” he went down into the alley, 
after having accomplished his mischief on the roof, and 
up the stairway opposite to his own rooms . . . Here 
Huber parted the dirty curtains at his window and 
looked insolently at the tragic scene below ... He 
observed it for all of the time until the ambulance drove 
away, and then he suddenly remembered he had for¬ 
gotten to blow his whistle in the last ten minutes and 
he ran down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry 
him . . . there was his merry-go-round still going 
’round and ’round and ’round! 


XIX 


AN EMPEROR IS ALSO IN SORROW 

When the news of the assassination of Archduke 
Franz Ferdinand and his morganatic wife, the Duchess 
Hohenberg, reached Vienna, it had come by way of 
Ischl . . . Emperor Franz-Josef was in summer resi¬ 
dence and had only arrived in the mountain resort the 
night before, two weeks ahead of his usual schedule, 
which was very exact. . . . 

His adjutant general brought him the news. 

Franz-Josef stood as if struck by lightning! The 
dignity of an emperor fought in his breast with the 
horror of sorrow that touches every human heart alike 
—he dropped the lids over his glazing eyes, filled with 
bitterness and the knowledge that his race, the Haps- 
burgs, was falling before assassins’ bullets, a crime that 
stains the soul with more infernal hue than any other 
beneath the dome of Heaven! 

The emperor then buried himself in thought. 

Above, on the roof of his residence, the standard of 
the Hapsburgs slowly fell to half-mast. . . . 

“Horrible! The Almighty does not permit us to 
challenge Him ... a higher power has again re¬ 
stored that order which I sadly could not sustain. . . .” 

These words, finally drawn from the imperial breast, 
as he ordered the immediate return of his household 
to Vienna, disclosed to the adjutant what he had sus¬ 
pected: the emperor had warned his self-willed nephew 
and the heir to his throne of the reception he might re¬ 
ceive from the secret societies in Bosnia, of which he 
had knowledge. The annexation of the province was 
against the decision of the people. The heir had to 
pay the price. . . . 


145 


146 


Merry-Go-Round 


No further comment was made. The emperor si¬ 
lently planned his duties to the dead and the living: the 
preparations for burial of the parents and guardian¬ 
ship and education of their three children, the princes 
and princess of Hohenberg, brought to him in the Hof- 
burg for the first time. 

When all preparations were made, Franz-Josef, 
composed, as a man should be after sixty-five years of 
statecraft and every vicissitude, yet crushed in heart, 
sat in waiting for the royal corpses from Trieste, 
whither they came by water . . . His thoughts con¬ 
sumed him. He rose and paced slowly up and down in 
his study, which faced the inner court. If he had been 
on the other side of the palace he would have seen, 
from the windows, the Volksgarten, where a military 
band generally rendered airs, but where now alone his 
pensioners walked, commenting on the day’s sorrows 
among themselves and feeding with pistachio nuts a 
little band of pigeons that strutted from long habit in¬ 
dependently about the square, with puffed out 
breasts . . . No children ran in the park today. Si¬ 
lence hung over the entire city and benches and chairs 
in the open were left standing, devoid of occupants. . . 

Franz-Josef in his study sighed audibly. 

He determined at length to go about something in 
order to employ the passing period, and, as there is 
always a duty waiting for an emperor in some part of 
his domain which he can with dignity assume in such a 
crisis, he sent for his Fliigeladjutant, to lay before him 
a routine. . . . 

Franz Maxmillian, Count von Hohenegg, in full 
uniform of the court, with an adjutant’s sash falling 
from one shoulder, entered and stood at attention with 
the official documents in his hand. 

“Gott griiss Euch , Hohenegg . . . Bose Nachrich- 
ten, .ein grosses Ungliick ist uns befallen ... In 
meinem Alter ist das sehr schwer zu ertragen. . . 


An Emperor Is Also in Sorrow 


147 


Franzl stooped and pressed his lips to the old em¬ 
peror’s hand, 

“Majestat . . he murmured, the tones of his 
voice hoarsened by the solemnity of the imperial 
tragedy. 

“Icln danke Ihnen . . . aber schweigen wir 
daruber . . . ,” x returned the emperor, and took from 
his hands the programme of the day, laying it before 
him on his desk. The programme was composed of 
four functions. The first and the last were marked 
“ Ausgelassen. . . .” 1 2 

FUNCTIONS OF THE DAY 

10 to 12—Audience. 

2:30 —Laying of Cornerstone at Joseph 

Stadter Orphan Asylum. 

3 :30 —Visit at Kronprinz Rudolph 

Hospital. 

6:30 —Gala Dinner. 

The clock stood at fourteen minutes past two. 

“Gehen wir jetzt nach dem Joseph Stadter JVdisen- 
haus. . . .” 3 

Franz-Josef made up his mind and acted immedi¬ 
ately. He left the room at the side entrance, and after 
him his adjutant ... As an order is no sooner given 
than it is carried out, his carriage was in waiting, he 
drove off and the guard of honour saluted him— 
u Geweeeehr—herauuuusss ! Geweeeehr—herauuuusss ! 
Geweeeehr — heruuuusss /” ... at the palace gate, the 
officer in charge placing his sword handle three times 
upon his left breast. 

The Kronprinz Rudolph Spital, or hospital, the sec- 

1 “God greet you, Hohenegg, bad news, a great misfortune has be¬ 
fallen us. In my old days this is very hard to bear." 

“Your majesty ..." 

“I thank you . . . but we will say nothing further ...” 

2 “To be omitted." 

3“We will go now to the Joseph Stadter Orphan Asylum.” 



148 


Merry-Go-Round 


ond objective of the Emperor Franz-Josef I on the 
29th day of June, a stone edifice with the letters of the 
murdered Rudolph of Meyerling’s name cut into the 
stone above the entrance, a touching memorial to the 
passing of the only son of the Empress Elizabeth and 
of the emperor—the real heir to the throne,—had, 
during the hour of the laying of the cornerstone at 
Joseph Stadter Orphan Asylum, 3:15 o’clock, to be 
exact, another visitor than the imperial and royal party 
expected within the hour. This visitor was not destined 
to leave on his feet, nor did he arrive in this manner; 
he was brought by the ambulance, which drove in with 
a clang of bells, the driver, having completed his run, 
lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke nonchalantly 
into the dome of heaven. . . . 

When the door of the hospital opened, two nurses 
in the garb of sisterhood stepped out. Their hours of 
duty were over. They did not stop to see the stretcher- 
bearers from the ambulance carry the burden indoors 
... it was an accustomed sight. They did not see his 
bandaged head that took away his vision, hearing, 
features, hair,—in fact, all of his head, since it was so 
well covered by the first-aid wrapping of the doctor 
who rode out and now followed the silent procession in. 
Nor was the forlorn figure seen that dragged herself 
over the stones of the courtyard after the doctor and 
the bearers. . . . 

Sylvester’s life was at ebb. At most, the doctor 
knew, it was a question of moments, twenty . . . 
thirty ... no longer than that. And the ward which 
ever yawns for humanity, trampled by traffic tides in 
the city, by great crimes and petty crimes, the refuge 
of all ills of the human body in all stations, as Stephans- 
dom is for the soul,—swallowed this victim, encasing 
him in white sheets, pale and indifferent, between a 
Strizzi picked up in the alley in a diseased condition, not 
yet isolated, and a track-walker with both legs cut off 


An Emperor Is Also in Sorrow 


149 


by a railroad train, who would continue to live, per¬ 
haps to his sorrow . . . He lay perfectly still with 
Agnes sitting at his side, crumpling the edge of his bed¬ 
clothes with her nervous fingers ... It was all a blank 
to her, still numb, dead indifference—inability to 
realise this tragedy that out of a clear sky would leave 
her alone in the world. A kind after-thought of nature 
deadened her faculties until no more sorrow could 
enter, like the pores of a sponge that is completely 
filled with water and cannot absorb a further drop. 

The doctors looked in on him, shrugged their 
shoulders and shook their heads. The nurses passed 
to and fro, casting sympathetic glances at her who 
would be his chief mourner when the parting hour 
came. 

The Strizzi in the cot murmured out of swollen lips, 
seeing her abstraction— “Wir sind alle todt . . . und 
wenn nicht ganz todt, bald todt. . . T 1 

He turned over on his side and his eyelids fluttered 
. . . . The odour of disinfectants was strangling in 
the ward . . . pallid faces looked out from sunken 
pillows, following the incoming of visitors as if they 
expected a word or a look from one of their own, 
somebody’s mother, wife, chambermaid sweetheart 
. . . a father, a brother, a fellow apache . . . Sun¬ 
light fell in squares on the floor. Warmth permeated 
everything, natural and brought in by the season. 

The silence of the white ward with its outstretched 
figures, the shuffling of the visitors’ feet at intervals 
and low-spoken voices, had the peculiar flavour of a 
death watch. 

Agnes’ hand stole up and she took Sylvester’s. It 
was clammy and limp, she became horror stricken. . . . 
She felt for both of his and her tears commenced to 
fall, for she imagined already he was dead . . . But 
feebly, at the pressure, he opened his eyes—she could 

1( 'We are all dead . . . and when not altogether dead, soon dead.” 



ISO Merry-Go-Round 

see them under a thin cover of gauze—and stared at 
her, weirdly, cold. ... 

“Papa . . she whispered, a great lump in her 
throat,—“papa . . . dear ... do you know me?” 

He patted her hand—just the slightest touch of life 
as if a moth’s wing brushed her. 

“Come ... I believe he is dying,” she sobbed out 
loudly, “oh, do come—somebody! . . .” 

That was all she remembered. 

A priest came, and an acolyte, carrying a chalice 
for prayer for the dying. The kindly white-gowned 
nurse came with an orderly ... a screen was placed 
around them all, enclosing victim, holy man, little 
mourner, the white comforters. She prayed, prayed 
with the priest, until the light—went—out. . . . 

And still in this recumbent attitude she failed to 
hear the holy men depart. 

At the front of the hospital several of the Sisters 
of Mercy and the Mother Superior stood, beside them 
four doctors, policemen, and numbers of bystanders, 
all idle, all drawn up with an object in view; the hour 
was half past three o’clock and the Emperor Franz- 
Josef was about to make an annual inspection of the 
Kronprinz Rudolph Spital. When his carriage hove 
in sight with the white plumes of his Biichsenspanner 1 
on the box, the doctors commenced to bow and the 
nurses to curtsy. The bodyguard was the first on the 
ground, the Flugeladjutant followed . . . With all of 
his eighty-four years, Franz-Josef was not far behind 
Franzl, Count von Hohenegg. He stepped to the 
ground with military exactitude, saluted, straightened 
his body just sufficiently to give him an upright carriage 
but without ostentatious pomp or the desire to appear 
impressive. Franz-Josef rather sought to be intimate 

Originally “gun loader,” hunter who accompanied and assisted the 
emperor auf der Jagd, loading his single-shot rifles. 



An Emperor Is Also in Sorrow 


151 


and kindly, benevolent, and he was particularly 
thoughtful today, the weight of a state tragedy resting 
on his heart. 

When he arrived with the Mother Superior, fol¬ 
lowed by his suite, on the upper floor, he was met by 
the priest and acolyte, who had completed their sad 
duty in the ward and were returning, and he respect¬ 
fully stepped aside in deference to the Host. Agnes, 
among the other visitors and the patients, had been 
warned—“The emperor is approaching . . . His 
Imperial Majesty has arrived at the hospital for a 
visit. . . .” 

She rose painfully to her feet and waited. Her eyes 
were fastened on Sylvester’s face,—the outside world, 
majesty, pomp, splendour, duty to emperor and king, 
lay outside the screen surrounding him . . . She heard 
nothing, saw nothing else. At another time, so close 
a view of royalty would have filled her with pleasure, 
she would have been beside herself and have thrilled 
from tip to toe with the honour and excitement of 
proximity. 

One after another the beds were examined. As the 
emperor approached, she made a curtsy . . . she did 
not lift her eyes, her tears were streaming. 

“Was fehlt diesem Patientenf” 1 she heard the em¬ 
peror say; the Mother Superior answered— 

“An accident case, brought in a half hour ago . . . 
fatal, Your Majesty. The patient has just received 
absolution.” 

“Who is this child?” 

At the inquiry Agnes raised her head. She did so 
involuntarily, and was so startled that even the em¬ 
peror turned, thinking an enemy stood behind and he 
was about to see some dreadful sight! . . . but all 
he saw was his Flageladjutant. And in the interim 


1 “What ails this patient?’ 



152 


Merry-Go-Round 


Agnes had recovered herself, cast down her eyes and 
waited for the imperial presence to pass. 

Franz Meier was in the uniform of an officer of 
the court. 

Franz Meier! 

His face was very white, chalk-white ... It was 
Franz Meier! with kid gloves on his hands, a sash 
about his shoulder,—the emperor’s adjutant! 

She thought of the violin he had played for her 
at the house of the police commissary, with the beau¬ 
tiful Madame Police Commissioner going to get her 
father out of jail— through friendship for Franz 
Meier! She saw the violin again and the “A” string 
broken. This time it was the “E” string ... he had 
cut it with his own hand—the hand in white kid gloves 
of the emperor’s suite! . . . 

She saw only him now, his chalk-white face strained 
to the point of agony, the wide eyes . . . they grew 
wider and wider—and faded away into no eyes, 
swimming together—into a mist . . . coagulated like 
blood . . . blurred— 

Her weight refused to be supported longer and 
she felt herself sinking to her knees, slowly, which is 
more painful than to drop all at once, and she gasped 
and trembled several times, took hold of the bed and 
slid, all the time trying to hold herself up,—until she 
collapsed like a sack of clothes, cold, on the floor! . . . 

Two nurses saw her and they ran to her, one of them 
with a glass of water, in order to sprinkle some of 
the drops in her face . . . This brought her 
to, but not quickly. Emperor Franz-Josef had 
seen the child fall, thinking it was due to her great 
grief. He whispered a gentle word to his Fliigel- 
adjutant, who, obedient to the letter, although he was 
at heart cut to the core, dipped his hands into his 
trousers’ pocket and fished out a golden crown . . . 
This he laid in her outstretched palm upon the bed, 


An Emperor Is Also in Sorrow 


153 


looking at her all the while with his heart in his eyes. 
The pathetic smile around her mouth was so touching 
he had all he could do to keep from lifting her into his 
arms from the floor, whispering words of comfort into 
her ear . . . He wanted to be forgiven for being a 
Fliigeladjutant and for deceiving her, he who was of 
the court and not a necktie salesman . . . she should 
know she was not wilfully lied to—that he had not 
intended, only at first, to assume a place that was not 
his . . . Now, he loved her! She was his dearly be¬ 
loved, and why not forgive him and live with him and 
be his sweetheart forever and ever? She loved him, 
he loved her! they were one! . . . only he could not 
marry her. Court etiquette forbade that. She knew 
it, everybody of all stations knows, only too well, the 
class distinctions in Vienna . . . How he loved her! 
he loved her! he loved her!! 

But, instead, the imperial visit was over in the ward 
. . . the emperor and his suite were retiring. He was 
forced to go. He had to obey, it was his duty . . . 
Instead—he withdrew himself, regretting each step 
that was a piece out of his heart,—deserting what was 
precious and inexpressibly dear to him on that floor 
to follow his emperor into the gallery . . . down to 
the private rooms of the establishment. . . . 

At the door Franzl stopped and turned his glance 
back for a last instant. All emotion was concentrated 
in that one glance . . . then he left. 

And strain as she would, Agnes could see him no 
longer. He was gone. The man who had taken her 
little morsel—all in the world she had to offer—from 
his high station, and now laid coins in her hand, like a 
beggar ... he was gone. The great void of the 
empty doorway, leading into the corridor, alone re¬ 
mained. . . . 



XX 


BONIFACE ! 

As a rule there are two types of people, those who 
love intensely and hate intensely, and those who never 
do either, running along on an even keel, perfectly 
placid, emotionless, lazy, indifferent and calm. . . . 

Schani Huber belonged to neither one of these types. 
He was a rule unto himself. He hated with all the 
venom of a snake wriggling in the meadow and always 
sure somebody is about to step on him, and, therefore, 
rearing his head to strike at all occasions . . . He 
hated Sylvester with an intensity that only culminated 
with his death at his, Huber’s, hands in the afternoon 
preceding on the Wurstelprater. 

Now that the tragedy was over he felt a keen satis¬ 
faction. He knew the clown was mortally injured, he 
had looked out for it that the moment should be right 
when he climbed up on the roof of Rossreiter’s and 
unfastened with his horny and knotted fingers the steel 
wires holding the sign of the Wundersalon to the 
creaking and rotted planked building by heavy screws. 
Having accomplished what he wanted, fate looked out 
for the rest. Destiny was with him, Sylvester stood 
directly underneath, while, if he had wanted to kill the 
hunchback, he would have been disappointed as Bar¬ 
tholomew stepped down from the platform just as 
the clown went up, just as the sign commenced to sway 
—just as his spiel was completed. 

The grudge that the proprietor of the merry-go-round 
held against Sylvester had, of course, been that he was 
the father of Agnes in the first place. He wanted this 
girl. She worked for him and he felt that he owned 
her. She was his prey and Sylvester was cheating him 

154 


Boniface 


155 


out of her by being her protector and watching him— 
Huber . . . When the episode came with the pocket- 
knife in the morning behind the closed canvas flap of 
his booth and he was about to get what he wanted 
from the girl,—Sylvester, like the old watchdog that 
he was,—ripped up his shoulder and would have gotten 
at his entrails had not the whole Wurstelprater corde 
into the concession just in time. Huber’s strength had 
helped him too ... he was built like an ox, had 
wrists the size of pig’s hams and muscles that bulged 
under his coat from work at the Kraftmaschine until 
they made an ordinary professor of gymnastics vomit. 

He hated, but he did not know how to love—except 
himself! Marianka, his wife, was abused, not even 
decently tolerated in the beginning, and now she had 
gotten to a point of revenge against him. She watched 
him, each move, even riled him, dodged his blows, car¬ 
ried some of them with her, and the Wurstelprater 
knew from its one end where the Rutschbahn stood 
next to the Panoptikum, to the other as far as Venedig 
in Wien, what she had to put up with, how her love 
had turned to loathing, how she despised, feared and 
would some day revenge herself on the toad who was 
Schani Huber. 

With such a general disposition toward himself, 
Huber further complicated matters by striking at ani¬ 
mals as they passed his booth. He hated dogs, they 
snapped at him. Cats threw him into a frenzy. He 
hated all four-footed things, which is a sure sign of a 
corrupt disposition—one that has cruelty on the surface, 
is shunned or snarled at by beasts who have a certain 
intuition. . . . 

He had a particular delight for striking at the 
monkey that was part of the attractions of the Wun¬ 
der salon. He had so far antagonised the young orang¬ 
utang, that Boniface forgot every trick he had been 
labouriously taught by his master, the hunchback,— 


156 


Merry-Go-Round 


left his platform and ran, squealing, at the heels of 
his tormentor when Huber came within the space of 
the concession. This put Huber in a good humour all 
afternoon. He would cackle out his spiel— 

“JenTmn, here’s your prize Herkalees masheen! 
Messhur your strength, watcha good for, watcha lift, 
watcha push . . d how hard k’n y’ hit! . . . three 
cents, a nothin’, a nothin’ . . .” laughing until tears 
ran down his hairy cheeks at the ape that chased his 
own tail in rage or licked his ribs where his cane had 
whacked the flesh half off the bones. 

Boniface waited all day for the return of Sylvester 
. . . The sign was gathered up, the debris cleared 
. . . business went on as usual after the accident. What 
could the concessionaires do? An accident is an acci¬ 
dent. Nobody saw the sign pushed down. Nobody 
saw the hands that unfastened it on the roof, or the 
body that slid into the alley, which was Huber’s . . . 
Marianka, selling the tickets, wondered why he let the 
merry-go-round turn for twenty minutes . . . but she 
did not know the reason; he came down from his own 
room. 

So Huber, who had murdered a man, was perfectly 
safe. Nobody suspected him. He barked all the 
afternoon, made faces at the monkey, winked at the 
girls and drew a holiday crowd. When it was closing 
time he went upstairs, leaving Marianka to padlock his 
concessions, drawing the canvas tent around the merry- 
go-round; and when she came upstairs, ready to drop, 
he started— 

“Got every nick’l of the money with you ? Next time 
come upstairs first . . . gimme the money.” . . . 

She carried it in her apron. She started to untie the 
strings. 

“C’m on, who th’ hell wants t’ wait for you ... I 
wanna go to bed, think I can sit here all night? . 

D’ you know how much money you got here? gimme 


Boniface 


157 


every nick’l, I ain’t runnin’ the shootin’-gall’ry fer 
nothin’ and I wanna know how she come out . . . she 
ain’t doin’ much an’ if tonight don’t show better, I’m 
gonna kick that Lizzie out . . . she can’t run no show 
o’ mine! Stallin’ and kiddin’ don’t do the business. . . .” 

She felt like telling him that his own kidding of the 
girls was about as useless, but kept a discreet silence, 
glaring at the pile of money that lay before his horny, 
greedy hands on the table, wherewith she was never to 
buy herself a single trinket, a dress, a coat, a hat, a 
shawl to cover her work-a-day body from one season 
to the next. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” 

“Nothing,” she retorted. 

“Get out!” 

He made a motion to lunge himself across the table 
and strike her, but Marianka glided out of the room. 

She had a separate bedroom. They made a store¬ 
house of this second room, filling it in the corners with 
extra ammunition used in the shooting-gallery, ducks 
and balls made of wood, clay pipes, prize dolls and 
souvenirs . . . Another weight-machine was in this 
room of a different type ... hit with a mallet, it 
registered the force of the blow on a scale behind, a 
device that they did not use because two of these ma¬ 
chines did not pay to operate. 

Huber’s room was used for a workshop and dining¬ 
room combined. It was badly furnished. A half 
dozen bottles of beer were on the table along with 
sausage and bread. As he counted his money and 
turned over receipts, he put the sausage and bread into 
his mouth in large pieces, so that his face, which 
bulged, looked exactly like his other Kraftmaschine, 
the one downstairs with the enormous empurpled 
cheeks, beaten from consistent blows of fists. His eyes 
watered, the juice from his mouth ran into his 
beard. . . . 


158 


Merry-Go-Round 


“Shee here,” he commenced with his mouth full,— 
“Mar-yanga, ghis rasheet ish ghus’ shikshee shen’s 
more zan I can find . . . you’re short, I counted the 
dam’ shing shiks timsch now! You c’mere, Mar’yanga, 
y’ hear . . . du gemeines. . . 

“It ain’t short,” she hollered. “I can’t hear a thing 
you say. Eat an’ get through an’ then I’ll show you.” 

He leaned back in his chair, “Shay, what th’ hell— 
I’ll beat y’ brains oudt!” 

“Look here, I never cheated you in all my life. You’re 
always pickin’ a quarrel, fightin’, heatin’, some day 
you’ll get yours, Schani Huber—see if you don’t!” she 
shouted, rather unwisely, for Huber took no threats 
from any woman, particularly his wife. So he leapt to 
his feet and started to abuse her in round terms, held 
her by the throat, actually spat in her face, and then re¬ 
leased her with a throaty— 

“If I wanna eat, I guess I can eat . . . wadda y’ 
know about that?” he grinned diabolically, and looked 
across from his window into that of Mrs. Rossreiter, 
where Agnes had returned from the Kronprinz Ru¬ 
dolph Spital and both Bartholomew and the fat woman 
were consoling her with meek little speeches in the 
lonely room. . . . “Well, see what’s here!” He went 
over and put his elbows on the sill, shamelessly inspect¬ 
ing the group. “Wonder what’s happened?” he said, 
curiously. 

“Sylvester’s dead . . .” said Marianka, before she 
thought, for she hadn’t intended to speak any more 
that evening. 

“Who th’ hell asked you?” he retorted, without 
turning his face. . . . “H’llo there, monkey!” Boni¬ 
face was seated on the opposite sill, his chain reaching 
inside the room to a hook over the frame. “Say, y’ 
want a souvenir, y’ dirty little screw-eyed, monkey- 
doodle saphead . . • He reached back to his loaf 

of bread and began to roll tiny hard knots of the dough, 


Boniface 


159 


with which he bombarded Boniface. “Ketch that, y’ 
wiggle-faced lout.” . . . 

The monkey started in to squeal, bringing Bartholo¬ 
mew to the sill— 

“Let him alone, Huber . . . you want that monkey 
t’ bite you?” 

“Think I care?” 

“He will.” 

“You’ve told me that a dozen times ... he ain’t 
bit me yet, has he? He don’ know how to bite, he ain’t 
no monkey, he’s a son of a bitch anyhow!” 

He threw so viciously to punctuate his speech that 
he caught Boniface below the eye; the monkey let out 
a shrill cry like a child in pain and leapt at him, bring¬ 
ing his chain out with a clatter and precipitating him¬ 
self at full length down the side of the building into 
the alley! 

There he hung, extended, dangling to and fro, and 
screaming at the top of his voice. 

“Ha-ha-hahaha!” Huber fell back into the room, 
laughing until his sides ached. Then he arose and bom¬ 
barded the poor victim, bringing all his accuracy into 
play, throwing with the might of his hamlike hands 
at the swinging target. 

“Curse your devilish hide!” Bartholomew drew the 
little fellow in and felt his chest and forefeet to see if 
he were injured. . . . “It’s a right he’d have t’ choke 
th’ life out of you, Schani Huber, an’ I hope t’ God he 
does it . . . well, look out, that’s all.” The fat lady 
took him in her arms and petted and caressed him, and 
in another five minutes all was quiet in the Prater 
park. 

Marianka looked at her husband— 

“Now, wasn’t that a brave thing to—” 

“Shut up an’ go t’ bed,” he interrupted. 

She did so, undressing herself as she passed into her 
own room and closed the door. 


160 


Merry-Go-Round 


The windows had shutters on them. The full moon 
was streaming in to Huber’s table where the money 
lay, so he packed it up, wrapping it in his trousers, and 
threw it in the corner of his room under his bed. Then, 
cursing himself for having left his shutters open during 
the process, he slammed them shut, steadied them so 
they fitted and dropped the latch into place on the in¬ 
side. . . . 

Having done this, Huber undressed himself, kicking 
his shoes and coat into one heap, his shirt and socks 
in another, rinsed out his mouth with the last of the 
six bottles of beer, let the bottle roll onto the floor 
and went into his bed. It was an iron bed with small 
uprights at head and foot, he made it squeak with his 
weight. He turned over two or three times, spat out 
into vacancy, hoping his sputum would land somewhere 
out of his immediate locality, and drew his gray blanket 
to his chin ... it was the only covering he had. 

Presently he commenced to snore with all his force. 

Boniface, who was in the room of the hunchback 
directly across the alley, did not go to sleep. His 
master had taken him from Agnes’ room into his own 
and chained him securely, so he lay in an old carpet 
bag which had a fearful odour, and his little beady 
eyes seemed to twist ’round and ’round in his head. He 
was a very human little creature. If man has descended 
from such mammalia, first, the gorilla, then the chim¬ 
panzee, then the orang-utang, then the gibbon, which is 
his farthest remote ancestor, it is not impossible to 
trace present human attributes in these creatures. . . . 
Boniface loved where he was loved, and hated too 
where he was hated,—a far more consistent arrange¬ 
ment than the human, Huber, who could only hate. 

Hence, Boniface revolved in his head the two facts: 
that his friend, Sylvester, was missing, and his enemy, 
Huber, had inflamed him to the last degree. With 
more than human cunning he linked the two facts— 


Boniface 


161 


one love, the other hatred, and coupled them—a thing 
no other brain in the Wurstelprater had done. 

It sometimes takes animals to teach the higher 
species sagacity. And Boniface was a very young ape. 

He lay in his rags, his eyes facing the moon, his legs 
bunched up, the ugly, shaggy brows that overhung his 
eyes and nose gathered into a knot, and thought passed 
through his brain. When the loneliness of waiting for 
Sylvester was uppermost, sad cries like moans came out 
of his mouth. Then Bartholomew cautioned him to be 
quiet. When his legs began to ache and the end of his 
tail felt cut off or squeezed by a pair of shears where 
Huber had stepped on it the previous day, he let out 
short yelps like barks and got out of his bed so his 
chain rattled. . . . 

“Boniface!” Bartholomew’s voice was sharp. But 
the chain continued to rattle. Soon only Boniface was 
awake, however,—and then he cautiously got on his 
feet, raised out of his bed and leaped up on the chair- 
back beside him, where he stretched to his full height 
and unhooked the end of his chain from the screw-eye 
on the wall. Thus prepared, with the end in his own 
front paw, he lightly sprang to the window sill. The 
window was wide open, the pane was up . . . soft sum¬ 
mer breezes stole through the whispering blossoms 
and brushed the leaves of the chestnuts together 
... an odour of fresh acacia came up from the 
semi-stillness. 

Boniface let himself slyly out of the window—this 
time with his chain! He crept hand-over-hand down 
the wood work of the wall, it was rough and unplas¬ 
tered. He stole carefully to the ground, spanned the 
alley in four little leaps and stood beneath the opposite 
wall. Starting to climb this, he resembled a black 
shadow—he wavered slightly, playing against his back¬ 
ground, looking now like a sphinx, now like the scroll¬ 
work on cornices, now like a jaguar leaping, and now 


162 


Merry-Go-Round 


just a simple little monkey playing hide-and-go-seek 
with his own tail on the Wurstelprater. . . . 

He got himself up so high—while everybody snored 
and their breaths wheezed out until they could be heard 
beyond the boards of their rooms!—that his hand 
touched the window-sill. He drew up and sat on the 
ledge . . . Then he ran his little thin paw between 
the slats of the shutters to the middle where shutters 
generally latched, and lifted the fastening. Monkeys 
copy everything and he had seen Batholomew lock his 
latch from the inside a hundred times in this way. 

So he was inside and he dropped to the floor noise¬ 
lessly. It was his only animal trait . . . Human 
beings can do nothing in silence. But Boniface avoided 
the clothes lying in bundles on the floor, leaping over 
them and the bottles as if by magic; he saw his sleep¬ 
ing foe and the moonlight was a very brilliant torch. 
So he hopped on the bed and threw his arms around the 
neck of the hairy occupant, drawing him to him with 
all his might. . . . 

A clock in the steeple of the Prater church struck 
two! 


XXI 


MAN IS AN IMITATIVE CREATURE 

Guilt is always avenged. The monkey went down 
the way he came up. He locked the shutters behind 
him. He fastened himself back on his screw-eye. If 
he had his liberty, what should he do with it? 

This is the same with man. He wants his liberty. 
His liberty! What shall he do with his liberty after 
he has it? Ask the monkey ... he will chain himself 
back on the wall ... he will go back to servitude, 
under some other banner, under some other master 
... he is one of a unit and cannot stand alone. 

The peasant will want to avoid the army ... he 
does everything to avoid his patriotic duty, because he 
is a farmer and not a murderer. He hates service to 
an ideal, but he will serve the soil . . . And so the 
peasants of Sodowa, in Bohemia, which, as a part of 
the Austro-Hungarian empire, sends a certain number 
of conscripts yearly to the barracks, have evolved a 
very sly system that serves as an excuse, and frequently 
they are able to stay out of the army. . . . 

Nepomuck Navratil, the valet of the Count von 
Hohenegg, a peasant, son of peasants, came from 
Sodowa. He was a plain workman . . . He had to 
support himself while his father lived; he had to sup¬ 
port his mother when his father died. When she died 
—his mother—he was free . . . He could roam the 
world. He had nothing to hold him to the soil of 
Bohemia. He could even join the army, and he should 
have, but instead he went back to the soil, planting it, 
reaping it, serving some master, who was the owner, 
and he was the tenant ... a free man! 

Now, when a man plows the soil he has not got any 

163 


164 


M erry-Go-Round 


education. He reads and writes just a little. If he 
is a Bohemian, he is stolid. His manners are quiet and 
sober, he is of the draft-horse type, pushing or pulling 
to send up a furrow; his nature is quite dependable 
but his mental resources are limited . . . He is very 
much like a monkey . . . what he sees, he copies, be 
it good or ill. He reasons a little, not far nor deeply. 
His master is his masterpiece, a model, the type after 
which to regulate his own conduct ... So a man from 
Sodowa learns easily, and generally the wrong thing 
first, as is the case with the ignorant. 

Nepomuck had been kicked in the head by a horse 
when a boy of thirteen. This stroke, which should have 
been considered ill since it brought on a concussion of 
the brain,—was instead looked upon by the future can¬ 
didate to military honours as the best of good fortune. 
It would keep him out of the army ... no doctor 
would pass as fit a man whose head had been cracked 
open, whose brains were mashed and sense gone—what¬ 
ever sense he once possessed . . . Nepomuck was ra¬ 
diant—as a boy of thirteen. He did not look forward 
with any great terror to the time of conscription. He 
didn’t want to do service, and here—like a present 
from God—was the horse’s kick! It stunned him. He 
was delighted. As soon as his head healed, he danced 
and sang . . . and so seven years passed and he was 
one year away from the time when his friends would 
have to go to the war and he could stay at home—in 
service to the soil, his master—and be saved from the 
necessity of learning to kill anyone, an enemy of one 
colour or another. . . . He pitied all his friends. 

“Why, I don’t have to go,” he said, “I am unfit.” 

“How do you know?—your head is healed,” they 
taunted him, who taunted them. 

“But no doctor will pass me!” 

“Wait and see . . ” 

He commenced to get nervous. Supposing his head 





















Man Is an Imitative Creature 


165 


were healed and the Assentierung 1 would actually pass 
him ... he would be drafted and made to shoot, to 
pack a pack, dig a grave, his own most likely, as he 
could never stand it—and get his legs and arms blown 
off. . . . 

These are the thoughts of every peasant in Sodo- 
wa, but they are not all as ingenious as this Nepomuck 
Navratil thought he was. . . . 

When the idea that he might be taken finally filled 
his head and he saw himself with one year to think it 
over, he commenced to save, earning each day, putting 
aside all he could. He had heard of a doctor whose 
name was Moritz Ohrenschmaltz. He was the regi¬ 
mental surgeon, a Jew; he knew how to get men out 
of the army. For money anything could be done, and 
he divided his profits with the Stahsartzt 2 , Christian by 
name, but a rank cheat all the same. If Nepomuck 
saved enough money and took it to this man, he would 
arrange with the Stahsartzt. . . . They had a device, it 
was made to get men out of the service, but they had 
to pay! So Nepomuck saved ... he denied himself 
everything. He bought no shoes and stockings, went 
around in his old things, sold his horse, bought simple 
food that he was always accustomed to anyway,—lived 
a very secluded life, knew nothing about young women, 
of whom he was as shy as the army routine! . . . and, 
in short, by the time the year was up, the Sadower had 
sufficient money, so he went to the Assentierung, when 
he was sent for, with a very light heart. 

The scheme was this: the recruit came, Dr. Moritz 
Ohrenschmaltz looked him over. If he put his hand to 
his mouth and whispered into the doctor’s ear that he 
was entirely unfit for military duty and the doctor found 
he wasn’t, the recruit took out his money and laid it 
in a convenient place where it could be found by the 


Examining board. 
a staff doctor. 



166 


Merry-Go-Round 


doctor, who put cheese in his ear to cause a running sore. 
The ear festered, it looked like an abscess. . . . When 
the recruit came before the Stabsartzt and Christian 
saw the running ear, he promptly set him back one year, 
taking the hint of the regimental surgeon to keep him 
on the payroll of the medical branch as a little side in¬ 
come. . . . Each year the peasants’ sons came in 
droves, the graft was paid over, the ears were kept 
running and the word “Untauglich” was set behind 
their names, which means unfit. . . . 

But the second year Nepomuck Navratil was not so 
fortunate. He was out of work. The crops had been 
poor, the weather against the soil, and he found him¬ 
self nearing the Assentierung for the second time with 
no money to establish a running ear. . . . He became 
frantic. He determined to tell the doctor that he would 
earn, would pay him. 

Dr. Ohrenschmaltz was indignant at the very sug¬ 
gestion. Would pay him, would bribe him! There is 
a very great difference between would and would. He 
was no grafter, what did the peasant think? He had 
done it last year? he must be crazy! . . . Where was 
his money—nowhere? How could he say such a thing 
— without money! And so Nepomuck was inducted 
into the army, tauglich ohne Gebrechen . 1 

His knees shook; he was too frightened to lift an 
arm or a leg. In the army? good God! The next 
move was: where should he be assigned? He was used 
to horses ... he went into the cavalry. . . . The 
regiment was called the Sixth Dragoons, under Prince 
Windischgratz. ... It was a renowned and remark¬ 
able regiment. If he had chosen one out of the whole 
Austro-Hungarian army, he could not have joined a 
more aristocratic unit! . . . But Nepomuck was not an 
aristocrat. . . . The fine brass buttons and highly 


x fit without flaw. 



Man Is an Imitative Creature 


167 


glossed boots could not interest him, except to shine the 
boots and the buttons. He was a very good servant, 
obedient, docile and mum. His silence was so great he 
was the butt of the regiment, taking cuffs and blows, 
returning none, often feeling the lash when some officer 
had a falling out with his light o’ love and did not know 
whom to burden with the punishment of the quarrel. . . 
The prince struck him, his captain struck him, his lieu¬ 
tenant, his sergeant, his corporal. ... If there had 
been any other degree in the army that could possibly 
afford wrath, Nepomuck Navratil would have received 
the blows. . . . 

And so, finally, when he was on the verge of suicide, 
not brave enough to accomplish it and not clever enough 
to stay out of the officers’ way, he was taken up in a 
hayloft by a drunken second lieutenant, who had sadistic 
tendencies, and beaten into a half-jelly. . . . 

This crime came to the notice of his captain. . . . 
The captain was Franzl, Count von Hohenegg, who de¬ 
manded an explanation, found out the standing of his 
Wojak 1 and took him into his own service to save the 
poor peasant’s soul. He was astounded at the man’s 
abuse; he saw the red welts all over his body at the 
bathing pool, and it touched him so deeply, he immedi¬ 
ately arranged to pay eight gulden monthly to his gov¬ 
ernment, placed a red “V” on the conscript’s sleeve, 
which gave him a standing in the community, made him 
a private valet and taught him service without the 
sword-knot. . . . This was well accomplished. Nepo¬ 
muck became a Putzer, which means shiner, an officer’s 
orderly. He didn’t have to practice arms as a continu¬ 
ous diet, only to fight in time of war, and shine buttons 
and shoes to his heart’s content. 

This just suited him. How he loved that red “V”! 
How meek and subservient he was at once! How he 
loved his master. . . . 


J army patois for soldier. 



168 


Merry-Go-Round 


The peasant who wants his freedom is only happy 
when he gets his slavery again . . . monkey-like . . 

fastening his chain back on the screw-eye after he had 
carried it off in his hand. . . . 

Cigars, perfume, wines—all the things which the 
Count von Hohenegg had in abundance, that formed a 
part of his household and life, all his civilian servants, 
became a part of the property of Nepomuck Navratil 
when he became in turn the property of his master. He 
used as much perfume as he liked, squirted it all over 
the place, commanded the servants, went about with 
his master’s cigars, drank his wines,—and in general 
became as overbearing as the ignorant can ever get, 
wearing a uniform! Fear left him, society pleased him. 
Franzl forgave him everything for his early sufferings. 
He was a changed man. Only on one point was he as 
shy as ever: he did not dare to look at a woman who 
was likely to return his affection. 

Now this last was about to be changed. Nepomuck, 
who had never been in love, fell in love. He saw a 
human being in the same position, practically, in which 
he suffered so keenly...—a woman, she was being 
beaten, cowed. He took the count’s flowers and can¬ 
dies to Agnes Urban on the Wurstelprater and in de¬ 
livering them came to the merry-go-round. A woman 
sat there in a wooden cage, she had sad eyes, she was 
being hounded... the man who hounded her was the big 
brute that stamped around, cursed her, gave her a 
beating, he thought. And so Nepomuck was in love. 
He was going to rescue this woman... he must see 
her, he went down to the Prater again. 

Twice before he had been there. Once when two 
men in his same regiment coaxed him to go out for the 
purpose of seeing how he would act in a dance-hall. 
When he came there, five women asked him to dance. 
He bought a little beer, the women chucked his chin, 
they asked for more beer... he wasn’t accustomed to 


Man Is an Imitative Creature 


169 


spending, and so they left him, cursing him in the 
Fiinf-Kreuzertanz 1 of the Prater. . . Then he re¬ 
turned to his mare, a soft-nosed animal with a velvety 
mouth that he rode in manoeuvers... He was almost in 
love with his mare! She never found fault with his 
hair-cut or his nose. The hair was cut in the villainous 
style of the lowest classes, butchered into an “M” from 
the front with the triangle coming down on the nose; 
and his nose was a special nose, bumpy at the end with 
a large lump like a little cantaloupe. . . . 

Outside of this he had no special characteristic except 
his recent arrogance, grown up like a mushroom out of 
fetid soil. But he drew twelve hellers per day in wages 
and the balance in tips from his count, wore Pomade 
Hongroise on his brown hair which made the hair-cut 
look still more noticeable, even spread out thin, copied 
his master and was now on the Prater, holding a box of 
flowers under one arm, not from “Fossati’s,” but some 
less fashionable florist—perhaps the flower girls before 
the Stephansdom—and seeking Mrs. Marianka Huber 
the day after Sylvester Urban had died, his daughter 
had returned to her lodging above Rossreiter’s and the 
monkey, Boniface, had let himself out of the window 
and gone visiting next door. . . . 

Boniface scrambled back in. What he left behind 
was a corpse, not a man. Guilt had been avenged, 
Schani Huber climbed to Heaven with the mark of a 
beast at his throat, only the mark was scarcely visible, 
as it had been done by two furry arms, softly strangling 
him in the dead of night behind closed shutters . . . 
and when Marianka found her husband in the morning, 
Boniface had vanished, leaving no traces, the dead body 
lay very stiff and unnatural, the tongue coming out of 
the mouth and the eyes from the head—and Schani Hu¬ 
ber was on his way to Heaven—or hell. 


1 five-cent dance-hall. 



170 


Merry-Go-Round 


Marianka was the only one inside the house with 
Huber. The shutters were locked, no human hand was 
small enough to unfasten the latch from the outside... 
she must be guilty! All the Prater knew she hated the 
bearded despot... Marianka was taken from the Wur- 
stelprater by the police for having murdered her hus¬ 
band while he slept, and was lodged in jail. 

Thus—when Nepomuck came into the merry-go- 
round, she was just being hustled out... He gave her 
the flowers, he looked his sympathy, and he learned all 
about the end of Huber, so he knew she was a widow . . . 

His romance had commenced, but he thought it had 
ended very abruptly. 


XXII 


“when love dies...” 

The most remarkable part of all the preliminaries of 
the world-war consisted in the month of silence that fol¬ 
lowed the death of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. A 
month of silence! Who was active during this time? 
The minister of war in Vienna for one person—von 
Steinbrueck... Other diplomats, most likely, German, 
French, Russian. . . . 

But in von Steinbrueck alone was the interest cen¬ 
tered for his daughter, the Countess Gisella, as she 
planned two very noteworthy things. To allow the 
death of the Austro-Hungarian heir to interfere with 
these was not in her nature. Gisella was reckless. She 
had determined to throw over society and she did so 
with a vengeance. 

She commenced by announcing her birthday party, a 
gala affair—a ball that would have taken place with the 
presence of the court—if the court had not been in 
mourning. So she gave it all the same. She was, in 
fact, stimulated by the volcano upon which the nation 
sat. That was in her nature. Volcanoes she approved. 
Consequently, when she decided on the party, Gisella 
knew, as it was July 22nd, that she could give her party 
now or never... tomorrow Europe would be at war! 
But she gave it as a quiet function which was on the 
same footing as a little private orgy would have been. 
Papa was there, taking a glass of Chateau Lafitte be¬ 
tween chats with the foreign minister and ambassadors 
from Germany and Russia. . . Franzl was invited— 

“My God, how can you think of such a thing now... 

171 


172 


Merry-Go-Round 


just after, just after....” he stammered over the tele¬ 
phone in shocked surprise as his little betrothed urged 
him to accept the invitation the night before. 

“Franzl, your scruples are really pathetic,” she re¬ 
sponded. “Why, every woman of the circle will be 
here.” 

This gave away the entire underlying feeling of those 
ladies who were supposed, by virtue of their stations as 
the wives and daughters of the highest nobility of the 
empire, to be the example of those lower down. They 
were supposed to be nobly inclined, but they harboured 
more petty jealousies and less scruples than any little 
country girl on the Wurstelprater. They were jealous 
of the Duchess Hohenberg. She was Bohemian and 
just an ordinary lady-in-waiting and she became the 
prospective empress. Hence, when the assassin’s bullets 
laid her low, Europe might have mourned, the whole 
world latterly to quake,—but the ladies of the Vienna 
court thought it was a time for jubilee, cats as they 
were .... 

“You mean you are going to celebrate your birth¬ 
day-” 

“And several other things as well,” she added. “For 
instance, this is the end—of a lot of things...” She 
meant she knew that the morrow held an ultimatum to 
Serbia and that war, a punitive expedition, would fol¬ 
low the ultimatum. Court functions could not resume... 
“Now or never.” . . . 

“Good God!” 

“You said that before, Franzl... Now, tragedy 
aside, you know the feeling of the court—the underly¬ 
ing, well, you know, my dear boy, you know... Come, 
this little affair is really for the purpose of saying good¬ 
bye-” 

“To flaunt your disregard for court etiquette.” 

“To say good-bye to it... All right, say that is true... 
are you shocked? You know my nature....” 




When Love Dies 


173 


“You go too far.” 

“Come and see.” 

“If I thought that every woman of the court would 
be present and that you really went through this mad 
thing for the purpose of feeling the teeth of the senti¬ 
ment, I would come....” 

“Don’t give me any such altruistic purpose as proving 
anything. I’m taking the opportunity, I’m dancing be¬ 
fore the flood gates... I’m announcing my retirement 
from society... I am going to have some interesting 
news for you.” 

“You paralyze me!” 

“Apres moi . Come and be seen...don’t fail, I ex¬ 

pect you.” 

He went. This “apres nous” attitude was too 
much the vogue in Vienna. Let the rabble sink,— 
laugh and be merry! 

Gisella was utterly self-centered. She thought prob¬ 
ably the world could not get on without her; or she 
knew it could and didn’t care. She was insolent enough 
to say, when she greeted him in a private salon off the 
ballroom,—“This is our last chance.” 

Seeing the halls filled with nobility all assuming the 
same viewpoint, he returned: 

“Will the proletariat spree while the crests sink?” .. . 

She raised a quizzical eyebrow— 

“That sounds like social democracy. There will 
come a time when they can try out their guns—and 
shoot at one another.” 

“War?...” 

“Tomorrow.” . . . 

Von Steinbrueck was never able to keep a dangerous 
secret from his daughter. She never betrayed them— 
where they could do harm. 

The volcano was, indeed, close. Franzl’s face became 
grave. He was more shocked at her levity, and those 
about her, than ever. 



174 


M erry-Go-R ound 


“I think it’s a good thing to send every man off with 
a smile on his lips, is it not so? Come, you are not 
lustig 1 ...you don’t expect I am a saint when tomorrow 
there will be nothing to laugh at...” 

“You said you had no altruistic motives in giving this 
affair.” 

“Only one. Toward you. Franzl, we are illy suited. 
You love etiquette and play with democracy. I love 
democracy and play with etiquette. Nun, when the 
proletariat sprees, I’ve determined to be out of the 
way... I’m going to Venice, friend. . . .” 

“When is that?” 

“We’ll discuss it on the dance-floor. We engaged 
ourselves dancing, we’ll disengage after the same for¬ 
mula. Come, my friend, little Franzl, lustiger Wiener! 
I’m twenty-four years old tonight and have a will of 
my own...it’s a bad will. It wills to suit itself and 
the devil be damned. . . This is apropos, they’re play- 
ing ( Quand VAmour Meurt J2 ....” she led the way on to 
the dance floor. He protested— 

“I don’t understand you at all?” 

“You will... and take it lightly.” She forced him to 
dance with her—“I saw you go ‘on duty’—with a sweet 
little passionate thing... she looked rather seedy, Franz, 
—on the Stephansplatz... a seedy girl with beautiful 
eyes, Franz! Who was she?...” 

He commenced to protest— 

“When was that?” 

“Yesterday... day before... you hired a Fiaker, you 
stepped in, gave her a smile—maybe a kiss! did you?... 
and the Fiaker drove off. I was behind you, followed 
you to Obere Augartenstrasse, No. 14... you see what 
a beastly memory I’ve got! Saw you get out, she got 
out... in you went, she went in!” Her eyes darkened 
as they waltzed automatically, surrounded with couples 


^erry. 

2 “When Love Dies . . . 



When Love Dies 


175 


—“and no excuses, please. What for? Surely you 
don’t care, and I—ah-ha-ha! there isn’t anything 
dramatic in this!.... Franz, I’m not jealous... the 
charming uniform you wear doesn’t thrill me as it 
would her, she loves you, no doubt. My neck and shoul¬ 
ders are not the nudity she gives to you in her rags. 
Well, then, say that we are happy to finish with each 
other, good friends but impossible lovers....” 

He felt his heart plunge and his face grow pale. 

“Why take it tragic? You used to be a perfect 
dancer,” she taunted him: “you are falling out of step, 
my dear....” 

“Gisella, have you considered what you are doing?” 

“That sounds pedantic, parental... have I considered? 
No. Consideration is the worst hypocrisy on earth. I 
don’t love you, my friend....is that news? You knew 
you had your wild oats,—I ? I had nothing. So I fell 
in love—with somebody else. It’s an excusable luxury. 
I haven’t grown old, but it’s time to matriculate... the 
college course takes four years. If you’re not dead, 
your love is. Nothing lasts.... that sounds like social 
democracy, and tomorrow the lid blows off ! I told you 
—I shall be in Venice....” 

“Does von Steinbrueck sanction this?” 

“He has national crises; he can’t consider his daugh¬ 
ter at home.” 

“You chose this hour-” 

“This night. He will be at the ministry, and I don’t 
mind telling you—your bird will have flown tomor¬ 
row.” . . . 

“And with whom, may I ask?” 

“That—” she said, and the music stopped... she 
stood perfectly still: “my stable groom, if you will... 
que sais-je ?” she whispered. . . 

It was a part of her daring and audacious character 
that she always threw out the truth to feel it smart. She 
liked to humiliate him. Her stable groom! But Franzl 



77d Merry-Go-Round 

did not consider the likelihood of this degradation for 
a moment. 

“Well, my dear,” he commenced, leaving the floor 
with her,—“if you feel that way, I can say nothing. I 
am only-” 

“The Count von Hohenegg, who loves ladies by the 
score! Who thought it a sport to steal other men’s 
wives, if they pleased his eye, and sisters, if they had 
virtue to lose... You ran, romped, threw kisses, played 
with women’s hearts the very devil! as if they were 
baubles to hang around your own neck, and all the time 
you never thought what the women went through 
when you men—your kind—throw them over. They 
take you seriously and you sport and play... all right. 
But when the thing comes home to you, you shrink and 
smart. 

“Nun, this is the size of it: I’m finished playing 
the betrothal act with you, my friend. I have had about 
all I can stand. You’ve had a hundred and one affairs, 
it’s fun, it’s sport. . . now legends end. You are free 
again. Go where you like, when you like... I’m not 
heartbroken, I want to be free. I don’t want to marry 
you and I never did want to. There’s no tragedy in 
that; only come into the conservatory and we’ll play the 
last act—like good fellows.” 

She went out with a sarcastic air and brought him to 
a rockery of ferns where there was a tiny buffet hidden 
in one corner. She stooped and took out a bottle that 
was labeled “Chateau Yquem, vintage 1876.” . . . 

Franzl, who could hardly control himself enough to 
follow and who felt as if he were suffocating in a sealed 
coffin, his uniform collar too tight, the medals over his 
heart lifting and falling with the action of the organ, 
watched her white, shimmering arms as they filled two 
glasses rapidly from the bottle... She was in deep 
decollete and her long train circled about her like a 
serpent. “Here’s to love!” she said. 




When Love Dies 


177 


“And what will people say?” he gasped. 

She halted her glass at the point of her lips— 

“Hang the people—your people, as well as your 
traditions and your codes of honour! I’m through 
with them... I want to live my life as / see fit to live 
it... and you live yours...” her eyes glittered—“and if I 
fail, I’ll have at least the consolation that the fault was 
mine. Drink and be merry!” 

She emptied the glass, and then in almost cynical 
fashion, stripped his engagement ring from her finger 
and held it out to him. . . 

“Here is your promise back... Now you can go to 
war,—I presume you will,—free, free as the birds in 
the air. Time is precious, make the most of yours... as 
for me— . . ” She stretched her arms over her head 
and threw her face up, laying her palms on her highly 
flushed cheeks. . . “traditions are in my blood, my 
friend... the von Steinbruecks have been reckless for 
generations. I would have made you a poor wife. . . 
This way—life will find me poor in thanks if I do not 
live it to the fullest. 

“When we crossed the canal—the day you drove 
with your little woman in rags to your assignation over 
the Ferdinandsbriicke—there was a peasant who threw 
herself into the river. She drowned and did not de¬ 
serve to be fished out, because she did not know how to 
live life... When we live, we love, and when we waste 
our lives, we die. . . Oh, I want to live—to live, and 
life is very sweet... The parting is not half as 
bad when you have enjoyed the moments together. 
That was the matter with us, Franzl, we never were 
lovers, we were poorly matched... propinquity brought 
us together, the bore of courts, the narrow, hemming-in 
attitude which sets every action into place like the pawns 
in a chess game. . . ” 

She smiled whimsically— 

“You are not taking this to heart? Don’t. It takes 


178 


Merry-Go-Round 


the poor to love—we are surfeited... we hear flatteries 
from the cradle and become corrupt from the time our 
ears are opened by nurse-maids’ catheters and the pearls 
our mother wears around her throat because she’s too 
damned lecherous to take them off! 

“That’s reputation for you! what will people think, 
not what is being handed down to us. So I go on and 
find love in my own way, in the manure or the heavens... 
the cock crows, the sun rises—the lark sings, it goes 
down! what is there to life?” 

Silence for a moment. . . 

The dance ended and was followed by new music. 

“There, you hear that? Presently I will be called 
upon to dance again. I must preserve my reputation 
and twenty-three men are waiting for my hand in 
twenty-three dances, one for each birthday... you had the 
first. My reputation is established by holding a jubilee 
at a mourning court. There’s no hypocrisy about being 
brazen... As for the other reputation, carried on by 
gossip, it can suffer. What is that to me now?” 

“Absolutely nothing?!” he thought. 

“We were made to shock or be shocked... Here 
comes my second birthday.” 

A little lieutenant, wiping the perspiration from his 
forehead and with his dance card in his hand, came into 
the conservatory. A MosesdragoonerI 1 . . . Franzl’s lip 
curled. He made him a formal bow— 

“Your pardon,” said the little soldier, “we have a 
dance, I believe?” 

“Yes...naturally,” responded Gisella... “I am asking 
the count’s permission...” With that she stretched out 
her hand, which Franzl kissed formally, and a cynical 
smile crossed his face as they left for the ballroom 
arm in arm. 

blurring way of referring to men of the train and transport service, 
because so many Jews served under this branch unable to be 
admitted to the cavalry. 



XXIII 


LILAC ! 

Well, he was free. . . 

It was ten o’clock. 

He was on the street before Gisella’s house. 

He had taken the precaution, when the humour of 
the situation struck him, after he slipped the engage¬ 
ment ring into his pocket, to take a second glass of the 
Chateau Yquem. . . The vintage was old. If it had 
been greener he would have been more satisfied with 
the effect... Now Franzl, making himself invisible by 
going out of the conservatory to the hall and into the 
small anteroom where he found his things, managed to 
make an exit from the house, the strains of Lehar’s 
“Wein, Weih und Gesang” 1 following him out of doors. 

He thought over his past. Gisella had awakened a 
strange current of recollection—she with her Lehens - 
lust 2 and desire to suck life from nature’s bosom to the 
last dregs. This fountain was inexhaustible... she had 
chosen a deep well. 

He was undecided which way to proceed, having no 
destination. His uniform, the gala uniform of formal 
entertainments, with its long cloak, lacking boots, the 
dancing spurs at his heels, seemed incongruous on a 
walking man. Still he wanted to walk and think over 
in the silence his emotions of the last hour. . . . 

A Fiaker passed and the driver hailed him, but he 
shook his head and went on, lighting a cigarette. 

His past life! Why was he responsible for a condi¬ 
tion that existed in every man’s life in the court that he 
knew? Rudi had stupid affairs, Nicki ran with every 

1 “Wine, Woman and Song.” 

insatiable desire for a fast life. 

179 



180 


Merry-Go~Round 


subaltern’s daughter, Eitel was the worst and had 
warped tendencies besides. The war minister, the min¬ 
ister of public instruction, the colonel of his regiment, 
Prince Windischgratz, who had two duels on his hands, 
—they were all like this! playing at love, always 
fancying a real passion and never going beneath the 
surface of their silk shirts. . . 

Franzl reviewed his life from his earliest real mem¬ 
ory, the year when he was fourteen and on his first 
vacation from military school. He was at the academy 
at Villaneustadt and came home without announcing it 
to his parents, either mother or father. . . His father 
was out. His mother was at home, but he went right 
upstairs, as if he were still a small boy, and ran into 
her apartments. . . Here he was met by a strange 
sight, not at all strange at first,—but presently he per¬ 
ceived that she, the Countess of Hohenegg, who was 
sitting on a tall gold fauteuil, one of his favourite chairs 
for the dreaming state as a child, and had only a very 
sheer negligee costume on, sat very high... much higher 
than he ever sat on this chair. 

It took him a moment to comprehend the reason. 
He was not slow. His wits came to his rescue, and he 
backed out of the room as he had come, only 
without his mother’s name on his lips... And from 
that time he was accustomed to looking at her with 
his eyes lowered. 

He went to sleep that night, drawing himself under 
the covers and intending to read a light story to divert 
his mind. The chambermaid came in to ask him if he 
wanted fruit, peaches, grapes, or cigarettes. . . She 
was a new chambermaid. One that he had never seen 
before. Franzl observed that she was looking at him 
rather strangely and he thought it was because of the 
secret he discovered upstairs... This was not the case. 
The maid knew there was a strange man in his mother’s 
room, but she did not know that he knew it. But when 


Lilac 


181 


she turned her back, he cried, and his imagination was 
fired. 

His father was Oberstallmeister at the Marstall 1 and 
many times did not return home at all, remaining away 
for days, when it was given out that he was with the 
emperor at Ischl or auf der Jagd... But at length he 
returned, fatigued, and slept a whole day and night. 
Not long after his return from military school, the ac¬ 
cident happened that cost his father’s life. The event 
was the Parforce Hunt 2 . His horse, a very fine stallion, 
slipped at a barrier and fell to his knees, throwing his 
rider over his head. If the count had been in physical 
condition to endure fox-chasing, he would have come 
out of the chase with his own life as well as the fox’s... 
Fatigue, lack of rest, exhaustion from many causes un¬ 
seated him; he went over the barrier on his neck and 
unhinged his spine so that he died without a single 
audible recollection and on the instant! 

This news was brought to the Grafiti von Hohenegg. 
She fainted. Then she recovered and smiled. . . She 
was a tall woman, willowy, quite slender and as pale as 
a Madonna. She always wore her blond hair a la Em¬ 
press Elizabeth, which meant wound about the head 
in two braids, and the deep shadows under her eyes 
gave her a tragic and questionable look. . . She danced 
with grace, was very lithe, and at court the best horse¬ 
woman that ever mounted a saddle. . . 

With these recollections, Franzl found his cigarette 
out and his mind heavy. His feet turned up a quiet 
street. He continued to walk and ponder... Mali was 
the chambermaid’s name who brought his mother the 
news. 

The same night she came into his room. She wanted 
to ask him if he had finished his reading, and brought 
him a French book... It was full of pictures. He read 


1 Colonel Stablemaster in charge of the imperial and royal stables. 

2 cross country fox chasing. 



182 


Merry-Go-Round 


a little French, his education along that line was bound 
to be limited. Cadets seldom read, but they had a fund 
of stories which they always told. He was not old 
enough for this. . . He was surprised when Mali sat 
down on his bed. 

“What will my mother say?” he asked her. 

“Don’t be silly!” she replied. 

He was—very silly. 

She was Parisian trained. 

He went back to the academy. Came back Christ¬ 
mastime. His mother had a middle-aged friend visiting 
with her, the handsomest woman he had ever seen. 
Without preamble she commenced, when she saw him: 

“What a very fine son you have, to be sure!” 

She spoke to him in a corner of the room alone. He 
was invited to call on her. He went. She had a large 
house, more servants than they, and kept a special but¬ 
ler who did nothing but assure the privacy. . . . 

Franzl, returning to the military school this time, had 
a page of his life behind him. He blotted it very 
carefully so it should never blur. He kept the record 
so he could refer to it occasionally with pride. See 
what he had accomplished, and so forth. . . Now the 
years flew around, he became seventeen, fell in love with 
a little actress of the Stadttheatre, who taught him more 
sophistication than all his seventeen years together! She 
was a former acquaintance of the German ambassador, 
had been to Nice and Monte Carlo and received a ring 
in a bouquet of flowers from the prince of Monaco, 
dancing in the latter resort. . . . 

When all this history came out, Franzl was en¬ 
chanted. He sat up all night listening to it and slept, 
in consequence, completely through the day. He 
thought he should go mad for love of this woman be¬ 
fore he reached his twentieth year, but by that time 
had forgotten her name and existence and those of six¬ 
teen others. 



Lilac 


183 


Now he was mustered out of school on the emperor’s 
birthday; August 20th, two days later, his mother died. 
He became master of the estates in Galicia, the owner 
of a fine home there which he never visited, the home in 
Vienna with fourteen servants, and his title, his position 
at court, vexacious memories, further affairs with 
women who came from the theater, the cabaret, the 
court and the brothel.... He was never quite happy, 
always pursued with flowers and souvenirs, Or pursu¬ 
ing, getting less enthusiastic with each foray, and 
shrugged his shoulders more often, day by day, laughed 
without mirth, grew cynical, gay, but not boisterous. . . 
And the engagement with the Countess Gisella von 
Steinbrueck was to culminate all this and now it cul¬ 
minated at nothing! 

He stood on the street. A second cigarette did not 
suit his taste. He felt flat, like stale beer, alone, and he 
had something else on his conscience. 

Tomorrow would be war,—at least, the preparation. 
Who knew what would happen tomorrow. Tonight he 
had an excuse, a very good one, in this uncertain excite¬ 
ment, to get a load off his mind that troubled him for 
three weeks. He would go down to the Prater. 

Franzl hailed a Fiaker and went directly to his own 
residence, which was not far. His portier slept, he 
roused him, and ordered the Fiaker to wait. Upstairs 
Spitzbub greeted him with short barks. This was an 
unaccustomed hour for Franzl to come home. . . 
Spitzbub yapped at his knees, ran across his room, came 
back with something in his mouth which he tore with 
puppy insistence, shaking it like a rat, throwing it up, 
catching it, trampling it with his four feet. . . . 

Franzl stooped and picked it up. It was the little 
lady doll he had won at the shooting gallery on the 
Wurstelprater and the dog had almost reduced it to 
rags. 

“Now, see here,” he gave him a severe look, “where 


m 


Merry-Go-Round 


did you get that? I never left that on the floor... did 
you get it off my dresser? Come here... you’re a 
damned lowbrow cur to do a thing like that, Spit zbub , 
and for two cents I’d give you the beating of your 
life.” . . . 

He was much incensed. Looking at the doll gravely, 
he could only reproach himself and sent for his 
Bursche. 

“Excellency?” said Nepomuck, entering the room. 

“What the hell do you allow Spitzbub to get into 
my things for? He was up on my dresser, took this 
thing off the table or somewhere. . .” 

“Herr Rittmeister, melde gehorrrrrr-smst - ,n 

But Franzl interrupted him: “It was not on the 
floor!” 

“Your excellency threw it down...” 

“I? Never! You’re a damned idiot!” 

He gave him a resounding cuff.... 

“Now, get out my civilians—the gray suit, take 
these things...” he handed him helmet, gloves and cloak, 
which he took automatically, nursing his jowl.... Franzl 
laid the remnants of the doll carefully in his upper 
dresser drawer, patting them and placing a silk scarf 
over. . . He took his brushes from the valet’s hands 
in an absent-minded fashion and commenced to brush 
his hair. 

His thoughts remained on the Wurstelprater. He 
dressed rapidly, took his cane, gloves, soft hat, left by 
slamming doors, threw himself into the cab and 
ordered the cabby to drive like blazes in hell to the 
Aspernbriicke. Here they crossed and continued along 
the Praterstrasse, ending up under the viaduct, past 
Venedig in Wien and before the concessions, still alive, 
still blazing with lights, smell, confusion, exhausting 
chatter, jabber, ringing of hand bells, steam whistles, 

^‘Captain, I most obediently report-” 




Lilac 


185 


the thunder of the Rutschbahn and the shots from the 
shooting gallery. . . 

Agnes was not in the Rossreiter booth. It was 
eleven o’clock... she must be upstairs. He looked up, 
undecided, everything was dark and still. If she were 
there, she slept. He did not want to find her 
sleeping,—got a sudden inspiration and went out 
into the Prater Park. There she sat, hands folded 
in her lap, crying a little. He went up to her 
at once. 

“Agnes...” 

She started and looked at him. 

“Let me sit by you... I am sorry—listen. I have 
no words to tell you how sorry I am. . .” 

“Did it take you all this time to make up your mind 
to tell me so?” she said quietly. He saw the tears were 
on her cheeks and in her lap was a little object, with 
hands and feet, like a man, and a piece fallen out of 
the mutilated cheek. He smiled strangely. Just a 
trick of fate—but he had the lady doll in his hands a 
few moments ago! “I suppose you would have liked 
to lead me on a little longer, to see me—suffer. . . But 
it’s all right.” 

“I hadn’t the courage to come sooner. But tonight 
something happened. The Countess Gisella von Stein- 
brueck, to whom I was engaged for court reasons— 
you understand how those things go,—sent for me and 
gave me my ring back. I’m not engaged.” 

“You never told me you were,” she reminded him 
coldly. 

“But—Oh! my God, can’t you forgive me? Agnes, 
please forgive me. . .” 

“Why, what does such a noble gentleman like you 
care whether I forgive?” 

“But I do!... I didn’t mean to lie. I meant it as a 
joke at first... until I cared,—and then it was too late 
to tell. I feared I’d lose you.” 



186 Merry-Go-Round 

“Well, you did. But what’s that to you? There 
are lots more who’d fall for it....” 

“But I love you, Agnes...” 

“Like you sold neckties?” 

“Please forgive me.” 

“Did I not believe enough yet to suit his excellency, 
Count von Hohenegg, engaged to Countess von Stein- 
brueck?” 

“But I am not; I told you, she broke the engage¬ 
ment... and this time I’m telling you the truth.” 

Her glance, coming from vacancy, accosted his now, 
questioning, and the lids were heavy with pain— 

“Why?” her lips barely formed the word. . . 

“Because she saw me with you on the Stephans- 
platz.” 

This caused her to smile—“Really? She broke her 
engagement? Then there are other hearts that suffer. 
I suppose you told her I was a princess. Well, what 

about it if you are—free? What’s that to me?.” 

She started to her feet. 

“No, no, don’t go!” 

“I am not so much of a fool to think that you—such 
a noble man—would marry me, a little guttersnipe.” 

“But, Agnes, I can—I can—will, keep you, make it 
nice for you if you will just be mine... I would do any¬ 
thing for you, anything....” 

He rose and held out his hands. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It is final. I 
love another... I knew him as a necktie salesman, he 
made me love him, and I loved... He died three weeks 
ago and I’ve buried him... he’s in my heart, livin’, 
breathin’,—he’ll keep on, and nobody—not even you— 
can take him out.” 

Her voice, heavy with emotion, dissolved in tears. 
Her footsteps started to retreat. He followed her, 
laying pleading hands on her shoulder, her shawl. . . 

“No...I’ll walk alone.” 



Lilac 


187 


“Forgive me,” he whispered, “forgive me...” his 
voice hoarsened, ’’forgive me, Agnes...,” It was a last 
appeal, like a wail. 

She continued to retreat, and he went back to his 
bench and sank down, taking his head in his hands. . . 

She stopped when she had reached the Prater gate 
with the lilac bushes on both sides... A spray of the 
perfumed flowers washed her cheek... she broke it off, 
pressing it to her lips impulsively, and crept back, lay¬ 
ing it on his knees and disappearing again before he was 
aware she had come. . . . 


XXIV 


AFTER THE BALL... 

Gray dawn is the real clandestine hour of the night. 
A midnight has the life of a nation in full swing—the 
night life, but gray dawn sees only the remnants of food 
from a banquet on a table, or empty bottles and full 
ash trays from the cigars that filled rooms with smoke 
only a few hours before. . . 

The minister of war left his home fifteen minutes 
after Franzl, drinking a last cup of some strong liquor, 
went to the German ambassador’s house and did not 
return, going directly to his ministry with his full dress 
suit on in the morning, covered by a long cloak. He 
was not seen during the day, he returned at nightfall. 
It was a very empty house. All the servants had been 
sleeping and the effects of the night previous were 
gone... With these effects was Gisella. Now, having 
established her reputation as a gamester who diced with 
life on the top of a volcano, she proceeded to throw 
herself inside.... She left word with her maids to be 
allowed to sleep until four o’clock in the afternoon, 
closing her eyes, supposedly, at four in the morning, 
after the little orgy was over, her guests had left, the 
twenty-fourth dance of her twenty-four birthdays had 
been accomplished to the tune of “Die Fledermaus” 1 
and she was prepared to fly. . . 

So she laid herself in bed, throwing her elegant 
finery over chair and floor indiscriminately—it was the 
last time she would wear this ballgown, go or stay, one 
wearing sufficed—and pretended to sleep, held her eye¬ 
lashes down just as long as she could stand it, then, 
hearing nothing, not even a cricket, she rose and threw 


lu The Bat"—comic opera. 


188 



After the Ball 


189 


her covers back, displayed herself without gown or 
sheet, like a sylph, and started to dress from the bottom 
up. . . 

When she got to the top she wore a dark gray travel¬ 
ing suit. It fitted her form like bottles fit corks, it 
displayed her quite as charming as she was, with her 
blond hair, in the crimson ball-gown of the night be¬ 
fore—a colouring that might almost have been called 
“shudder”—and she put on a black silk hat, shorter 
than a man’s on the top and with a wider brim, a stiff 
hat, and slung her pouch across her shoulder down to 
the opposite hip, like a chamberlain’s sash. . . 

Gisella’s little feet were in walking brogues. She 
had a fox for her neck, a veil over her face, lashes so 
long that they compromised the veil. Her white collar 
around the neck of her gray suit was English, like the 
shape of her suit, but, being made in Vienna, a woman’s 
outdoor and traveling suit, it was better tailored and 
more chic. 

In order to dress she lit her lamps, drawing her 
shades. She moved about cautiously. She was very 
particular about her facial charm, having a very ravish¬ 
ing face, and the greater part of the Countess Gisella’s 
preparations were taken up with eyeing herself askance 
in the long trumeau, as she never looked at anything 
from the front directly... This gave her a sentimental 
look but one also very questioning and bold. It is 
strange, to look with sophistication is to look veiled. 
A bold glance is not given with the full eye or the lifted 
lid. . . 

She now had her bags to pack. There were two. 
One was completely filled. The other had only the 
articles to which she was accustomed, to go in—with 
which she was improving an appearance already be¬ 
yond any possible addition to the charms born by nature 
there. . . These articles came off the table: powders, 
rouges, lip pomades, a calendar, a prayer book, Boc- 


190 


Merry-Go-Round 


caccio’s Decameron, a book she could not part from, 
her crucifix, a rabbit’s foot, and, lastly, she examined 
her jewels. 

Her jewel case was oval, standing on three legs like 
a little gold coffin and lined with purple satin... She 
took up and counted over the brooches, tiara, collarets 
of pearls and a thin, almost invisible band of gold that 
clasped her neck on state occasions, hanging a gigantic 
blue diamond right where her throat met the channel 
of her two breasts, one of the largest and most valuable 
stones in any private collection of Austria. She 
had, in all, forty pieces of jewelry, rings, ear- 
ornaments, cuff-links for her riding suits, diamond 
belt-buckles, shoe-buckles, a disturbing number of 
hair ornaments, garter fastenings, anklets, watches 
and bracelets. . . . 

She slipped them all into a chamois bag which she 
dropped into her bosom, snapped the catches of her 
bags and was about to leave the room when she re¬ 
called she had not taken anything to smoke. With this, 
everything was set down. She opened her humidor, 
took out a dozen fine cigars and slipped them on top of 
the prayer book, into the bag. 

This chamber she was quitting was the most refined 
imaginable. It was off her dressing-rooms and lounge, 
a commodious state bed-room, formerly occupied by 
the Princess Konigsgratz, her aunt.... Now the prin¬ 
cess was dead, her mother was dead,—the whole wing 
of the second floor, having complete comfort in fifty or 
more ways, belonged to her. 

She was leaving all this. 

Her heart stood still, she laughed then caustically 
at her qualms. If democracy were in the wind, democ¬ 
racy she would eat, drink, sleep and absorb. Democ¬ 
racy! She had chosen the morning of the day to decide 
the fate of Europe in escaping from her bondage in 
the environment she knew all her life, was born in, was 


After the Ball 


191 


tired of, anxious to dispense with for a tilt with passion. 
And she knew, as von Steinbrueck knew, that the word 
going out to the smaller neighbour of the greater state 
—Austro-Hungary—was an ultimatum, would be re¬ 
ceived by eleven o’clock in the morning and would mo¬ 
bilize two armies. . . 

War only with Serbia was expected. Serbia, who 
had won the Balkan war. Serbia, whose armies were 
just now cocky. Serbia, whose provinces, Bosnia and 
Herzegovina, were annexed to Austria-Hungary 
against her will—and theirs. Serbia, who would either 
give in to deliver the murderers of the Archduke Franz 
Ferdinand and his morganatic wife to Austria, or fight 
to keep them! Serbia, who would be swallowed mili- 
taristically anyway,—and Serbia, who actually gave in 
but was involved in war all the same—because the Aus¬ 
trian empire needed war to keep her social-democrats 
from becoming too powerful! 

Serbia would have forty-eight hours to answer the 
ultimatum from Austria,—and this was the time re¬ 
quired, since the declaration of war after the forty- 
eighth hour would close the boundaries of Austria- 
Hungary as fast as a latched door, for the daughter of 
the war minister to get outside if she wished to go on 
her primrose path. . . . 

She did. Her elopement with Jock Steers was 
planned. She had decided to give up Vienna, court life, 
balls, admirers, stilted conversation, narrow aristoc¬ 
racy, to try her hand at the mad escapade of a love 
affair, unbridled, unlicensed, below her “station,” so- 
called, and pandering merely to the morbid level of a 
warped nature, low, degrading... an affair with a 
groom! 

Steers stood outside in a loud, checkered English 
raglan and cap, with a thin stick in his hands, housed 
in yellow gloves. . . 

She was going to live! She loved! 


192 


Merry-Go-Round 


The door of her house opened cautiously, she peered 
outside... Yes, there he was—her lochinvar. She gave 
him a smile. He answered from the side of his mouth 
where his cigarette was hanging—the kind of a smile 
thieves exchange over a “con” victim. . . 

A two-horse carriage stood there in the semi-gloom. 
Day was battling with the night elements, dawn 
streaked in slowly. 

“I’m here,” she whispered. The adventure was giv¬ 
ing her a thrill. 

He muttered under his breath so she could hardly 
hear him, “It’s twenty to five, train goes ten after... 
have you got everything? Sure you want to go? Don’t 
break down.” 

She gave a low laugh. 

“Ssh....” 

“Ha-ha, you don’t know me !” 

“Yes I do. Come on, give me the valises...” 

He could have taken them. She took them instead. 

“Wait a moment,” she said. “I have something to 
give you.” 

“Not here...get into the cab.” 

She was already fumbling in her breast and took out 
the chamois bag, heavy with the deposits of her 
jewel-casket— 

“My dear, put this in your pocket.” 

His brow wrinkled, “What is it?” 

“You see... open it.” 

He did so. He was dazzled! His eyes fell on all the 
stones, lying still and silent and weighty in his hand 
under the dome of the pewter sky. . . How he de¬ 
voured with greedy glances those shining little mon¬ 
sters! Ready cash! Jewels! ... He closed the 
bag, latching the cord over the neck, giving it a twist, a 
pull... a grunt of satisfaction accompanied the action. 
She took this for assent, which it was; he put them in 
his inner coat pocket, holding out his raglan coat with 



After the Ball 


193 


the other hand, with the collar half turned up like a 
Strizzi. . . . 

And now they left in the carriage. Her trunk stood 
up in front with the driver. His bag was on the inside 
next to hers. Side by side they sat. And before them, 
one white horse, one black—as different as the two pas¬ 
sengers they drew behind them—as much of a contrast 
and trotting as nicely together once >they felt the 
whip. . . 

A lantern man with a drill duster and a long bamboo 
stick extinguished the light attached to her house as 
they rounded the first corner. 

“Siidbahnhof 1 ,” said Jock, sticking his head out of 
the cab window and speaking audibly for the first time. 

The man on the box nodded. 


1 South Railroad Station. 




XXV 


PUNCH AND JUDY 

All the way to the Semmering 1 , Jock’s love was on 
the ascending scale. As the railroad went up, so went 
he, pledging his amorous mistress all the delights which 
only a woman, more in love with adventure than sanity, 
could crave. . . 

She heaped caresses on him in the privacy of their 
railroad car. Jock was very exact. He returned two 
for one. He was as affable and loved as devotedly as 
at any time in the stable, principally toward the last 
hours of his stay there. 

He was always in the same position—until they 
reached the Semmering. She was in his arms, they 
smoked one cigarette—he never used cigars—and 
mingled their breaths as fragrantly as any two young 
people in love. . . He sat perfectly still as the engine 
climbed. It is a serpentine grade. The Semmering is 
one of the highest points in the eastern Alps. They 
were going over the Alps into Italy. The plan was to 
go to Venice. Venice was romantic. It had canals, 
beautiful gondolas, gondoliers, lights playing in the 
water, moonbeams overhead, quiet whispered words, 
strains of music. . . . 

Venice is the paradise of lovers, and Gisella was as 
much infatuated as she ever hoped to be in her life. 

She murmured into his ear— 

“Damn the fools who don’t know what a spree is— 
here we are!” 

“Yes,” said Jock. 

“There’s a hornets’ nest at home... silly, slimy diplo¬ 
macy, and we got out just in time. They shut the gates 

fountain between Austria and Styria, 4,105 feet high. 

194 



Punch and Judy 


195 


in forty-eight hours and we’d have been stuck in Aus¬ 
tria. That would have been a hell’s pickle!” . . . 

“Sure,” said Jock. 

“You glad you’re here?” 

“Sure.” 

“Love me?” 

“Sure.” 

“Light another cigarette. . .” 

They smoked in silence. Jock was doing a lot of 
tall thinking. His brain was getting just as sharp as 
hers was weakening in contact with him. He had a 
degrading influence on her; her wits, her subtlety, the 
pride of a woman and niceties of all nature were being 
slowly corroded like the action of water on brass. . . 
He was an element she had only to cultivate to eat 
through her own marrow... but he thought that fate 
had blown on his finger nails and was giving him a 
pretty good lustre! If his stable mates in England 
could have seen him just then they would have 
grunted— 

“Jock, the dope’s straight... you run accordin’ to 
form! The filly’s got a good head, but you run ’er off 
’er feet.” ... 

To which Jock, the lady-killer, would have re¬ 
sponded : 

“The lady’s ’ead ain’t ’alf ’s important as the gems 
she give me and the purse strapped onto ’er shoulder!” 
And he had it planned what he should do when he 
reached Venice; stretched out and enjoyed comfort in 
the meantime. 

Gisella slept part of the journey with her head 
against his collar. When they reached the Semmering 
she thought she was in the seventh heaven instead of 
the first! Her arms were perfectly limp, her limbs re¬ 
laxed, conversation was impossible between them be¬ 
cause they had nothing to say but so very much to 
occupy their emotions, and cast daring glances at each 


196 Merry-Go~Round 

other when their eyes were not so close that they looked 
cross-eyed. 

He commenced to stretch himself—after the Sem- 
mering. He was stiff, his back was paralyzed. He 
gave her a little shove, regardless of the perfumed, 
warm, voluptuous Gisella that had given herself into 
his keeping, and her moist, crimson lips—the lips of a 
courtesan and his mistress. Her golden hair was shin¬ 
ing around her head like an oriole. It inflamed him. 
He wanted to beat her! to destroy that look of satis¬ 
faction ! He gave her a vicious shove, from brutality, 
sheer, quivering animal instinct to dominate. And he 
saw her eyes open widely, startled, and sink back into 
her head, quizzically. . . She asked him—“What’s 
the matter, Jock?” 

“I’m stiff.” 

“Well, get up and stretch.” 

She said it so languidly, he felt his fists contract and 
he could have struck her placid, amorous, contented, 
lazy face and breasts with his fist,—struck her, mashed 
her and them!... He choked, held himself in check and 
let the spasm pass. 

“I said, get up and stretch... where are we?” 

“Semmering...” 

“Going down?” 

“Can’t you feel the motion of the train?” 

“No... can you?” 

“Sure!” 

“Come back and lie down...” 

He lit himself a cigarette, standing on his feet and 
swaying with the motion of the train. 

“It’s a damn long trip to Venice, ain’t it?” he said. 

“You think so?” she asked with a rising inflection 
which suggested that it could not possibly be long 
enough if he felt as she did—morbidly contented. . . 
“I hadn’t noticed... dear, get me my satchel...” 

“Which one?” 




Punch and Judy 


197 


“I haven’t so many.” 

“You got enough.” 

“What’s the matter with you? I want you to get 
my little bag. Now hand it over—it’s under the 
coat...” 


“What’s in it?” 

“Money...” 

He sat down next to her, having fetched it. 

“Count it... let’s see how much you got...” 

She gave him a sarcastic look. 

There were four folders of express cheques, he 
looked at them as she opened and closed the covers, 
snapping them together— 

“When we get to Venice I want you to take charge 
of them,” she said, placidly, “it will save me the 
trouble...” 

“And why not now?” 

“Well, I’ll have to countersign them anyway...” 

He got up again and took a turn around. Twelve 
thousand dollars! By God and his guts, what a load 
of money! Twelve thousand! Sinews and souls! 
brains of the devil! He swore to himself and the pen 
itched to come out of his pocket! 

He sat down and took her little hand in his— 

“Haven’t we been ’appy ?....” 

“Of course,” said she. 

“Well, give us the money,” he said, “I’ll take care 
of it now...” 

“Unsigned?” 

“Well, sign it!” 

“But...in front of a witness... I mean, they have to 
be signed when they’re cashed. It can’t be done now, 
they wouldn’t be good....” 

That was true, he wasn’t cashing them. 

Hell! 

He got up. 

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked him again. 



198 


Merry-Go-Round 


He was commencing to irritate her with his dictatorial 
way about money, and hopping up and down... “Sit 
still” 

“I don’t have to because you say so!” he swung 
round on her insolently. 

“No, you don’t, but why not?” 

“Because I won’t.” 

“Don’t be brutal...” 

“Brutal—hell!” 

“Sit down, Jock. . 

The nervy hell of her to tell him to sit down! He 
itched and itched all over for that money. . . 

If he hadn’t the sight of a gaol in front of him, he’d 


choke her... 

Gisella looked out of the window, sharply at him, out 
of the window... If there were a scruple rising in the 
sea of her contentment, it washed with a very calm rip¬ 
ple... it made her smile to see how ferocious the little 
mastiff looked, he, with his checked tweeds... and the 
bedazzlement of her smile always set him right again. 

But he was changed. The Jock she knew was the 
Jock of the stable, her servant,—and this Jock was a 
man rabid for the other things of life... He had her 
body, he wanted her money, that purse with its cheques, 
properly indorsed... She had only seen the lower side 
which was the higher... now came the reckoning. 

She laughed caustically...it was her trait, she did not 
want to infuriate him, but Jock swayed with the lurch 
of the train and came up with his jaws set. He called 
out several names, as choice as the roster of a rooming- 
house in the tenderloin, and he spat and cried— 

“What th’ hell! Who do you think you are—laugh¬ 
ing at me? I’m damn sick of it...” 

She laughed all the harder. 

“Stop, I tell you! We’re not in Vienna—it’s not 
Jock and milady—it’s you and me. I tell you, I won’t 
stand it...I’m not your swine, your dirt!” 


Punch and Judy 


199 


“Who said you were?...” 

“I’m not.” 

She commenced to think. This was a vile beginning. 
But the Countess von Steinbrueck had one trait which 
is found in women of lesser degree and all races. She 
loved the idea of being possessed... brutality did not 
shock her unless it was impossible and furious 
beastiality—that could not be stemmed. 

She liked to be conquered. The low side of life gave 
her a feeling of satisfaction. She was not ready to say, 
“I’m sunk! I’m done for!” by this little outbreak. 
She rather enjoyed it, and, therefore, assured him, with 
a little chuckling motion of her shoulders—she was 
secretly delighted!— 

“You shall have everything your own way.” 

“Is that so? You bet I will!” he blazed forth. She 
still thought he was not in earnest, and, besides, the 
thinner the ice, the better she skated.... He quarreled 
with her later about horses, about mounts they could 
buy in Italy, or could not, asking for money; vilified 
her in grumbling tones under his breath when he came 
to nothing—yet. He was determined to carry off the 
elopement for his venal profit quite as much as the 
pleasure it had given him to possess a countess, and 
spat and fumed, grew ugly, hid it, determined to 
break her if she didn’t “come through” when they 
were in Italy at the hotel and he had her to 
himself, utterly to himself!...and so they went on to 
Venice. . . . 

She was uncertain how to take him by this time. He 
was not the same man. Her passionate nature was 
stimulated... at times she was revolted... between love 
and affection and abuse, it was like the affairs of some 
noted French actors and actresses who embraced, spat 
at one another, cried out with vilification, and threw 
themselves into one another’s arms—all in the space of 
a moment! Her mouth drank his oaths and his kisses 


200 


Merry-Go-R ound 


practically at the same time, and with this submission, 
Jock the lady-killer adopted new tactics. . . 

They were lodged at the Royal Danieli, which is not 
far from the Ponte di Rialto and is the finest hotel in 
the city. She had taken the precaution to buy herself a 
wedding ring, something in platinum set with diamonds, 
and kept turning this on her finger and laughing at 
herself. 

The adventure was not bad. It satisfied her glut¬ 
tony for freedom, romance. There were still depths 
she wanted to plumb. Jock would plumb them with 
her. Their leisure hung upon their hands, he was will¬ 
ing to go as deep as she. At times he loved her to dis¬ 
traction... then she sank into the lethargy that made her 
numb to his abuse, craving only this lustful feeling— 
this sinking she knew not into what, but it tasted so 
sweet in its bitterness. 

She cried out to him— 

“Jock, you love me, you love me to distraction! My 
God, Jock, we could die together!” But neither one 
of them intended to die. They intended rather to live 
life to the fullest, Gisella to live her life out, as she 
called it, and Jock to see his way to becoming a million¬ 
aire, which is, even with grooms of fine ladies, the 
furthest object in the world. 

He tortured her by beating her. But she only liked 
him the better! Jock took her nature entirely into 
his hands, remoulding it after the fashion of low under¬ 
lings. He robbed her of her audacity, her pluck, the 
things that made her a countess over the rabble,—and 
when he had struck her unmercifully with his fist one 
day, she said to him— 

“Do it again... it feels so nice!” 

Against such a passion the stableman’s cunning be¬ 
gan to doubt itself. If he abused her she felt better 
than if he did not. Jock knew there was only one thing 
—his own presence, which, if she were robbed of, 



Punch and Judy 


201 


would give her actual pain... He therefore pro¬ 
posed that they take a look around the city. He 
was tired of the same diet—it was too warm, too hot, 
too satisfying, and he wanted to give her a single 
sharp thrust that would make him complete master 
over her! 

They turned automatically in the direction of the 
lower part of the city. They went into the city’s slums. 
It is doubtful if he or she chose this. They probably 
chose it together, each having a reason. With him it 
was the return to former associations, as he had been 
a very low character. With her it was novelty, and the 
warped inclinations which had taken her this far. They 
were continuing to circulate with her blood. She 
wanted to throw herself into the mud-puddle, to come 
out stained, sophisticated, satisfied—to have known life 
in its deepest dregs! The dye was a crimson pigment, 
she wanted to bespatter herself with it. . . 

And with this in mind, each urged the other. The 
establishment they visited, a public house in the Calle 
Barozzi, had a regular underworld clientele, and here 
was a very handsome Italian officer, visiting, who, im¬ 
mediately on perceiving her, made her signs, caused her 
to sit down by him at table, talked with her, smiled, 
oogled, and bit his long, black moustache until it threat¬ 
ened to be abolished from his lip.... She went further 
with him, and, such was the perversity of her 
nature, this temptation was agreeable to her. She did 
not note that Jock was absent, that he had disappeared. 
She went with the officer and found, an hour later when 
she returned to the public hall, that Jock had been gone, 
was back, sarcastic, and shrugged his shoulders in a vile 
manner on seeing her. 

He did not question her, did not expect to have him¬ 
self questioned, but smiled, amused, and exchanged a 
glance with her.... 

She felt somewhat guilty, however, and gave him an 


202 


Merry-Go-Round 


express cheque at her hotel desk, where he cashed it, 
pocketed the money and left the same instant. 

Late in the night he came in. He had been at the 
Cafe Martin, the noted restaurant frequented by book¬ 
makers who come over from San Siro, Milan’s race 
course, to lay wagers among the small sporting element 
in Venice. . . 

The former trainer was “cleaned out” and came 
back to get more money... but he had the decency to let 
the demand for money go over until the next day. She 
was again alone at the hotel... her Italian officer came 
to keep her company, they went together—down to 
the establishment in the slums, paid the regular fee as if 
she were an inmate...left hours later. . . It was the 
same thing every day. 

When her hotel bill was due she paid it, and they 
kept up the irregular life. He gambled and lost. She 
was gambling, in a different way, and was also steadily 
losing, although she did not know it. She thought she 
gained something—which is pastime for a moment, and 
passes, leaving a state of exhaustion... she was becoming 
more corrupted with every moment of her stay in 
Venice. 

But she paid the bills. When her funds commenced 
running low, Jock thought it was time to move. He 
would rather gamble with the money than eat it up. 
His resolve was to make a hell of a lot of money, get 
rid of her—this cheat, who went about with God knows 
who!—and to celebrate by getting drunk on English 
ale! He took Gisella to a less expensive place, a third- 
string hotel. It was nearer the slums. This recom¬ 
mended it. She did not say a word. She was in a sort 
of sensual lethargy which made her his tool, the tool of 
the Italian and any other pleasure that offered for a 
moment . . . From this hotel they went to a still 
poorer o ne in the San Dona 1 , the Albergo del Capello 


1 Iovr district. 



Punch and Judy 


203 


Nero, which means the hotel of the Black Hat and was 
not far from the Calle Barozzi. . . They had quar¬ 
reled, outrageously, into the morning hours through the 
whole night, and were asked to vacate... She had 
only two express cheques left—something like four 
hundred dollars, as she had had fifteen thou¬ 
sand kronen in fifteen cheques in each book of the 
four. Two thousand kronen remained. She gave 
him one of these. He had beaten her brutally, caus¬ 
ing her to cough. This cough kept up, it started to 
strangle her...but she was young and strong, she 
fought with him! 

It was a degrading moment—only the first of the 
worse hours that followed. And again that sensation 
of happiness when he struck her invaded her whole sys¬ 
tem for some time. She wanted him to beat her! It 
was a culminating shame. But Jock, aware at last that 
his beating gave her pleasure, held off... she inflamed 
him, he only pinched her, cursed, but did not strike, in 
order to satisfy her. . . . 

The Countess Gisella was without money or jewels. 

She asked him for the jewels. 

“Ooh, my beauty—my fine huzzy, little rotten 
onion L.whotcha think, I nurse them jewels? I make 
’em grow in my pocket ?....no, they ain’t pawned, no 
uncle ’as got ’em... I lost ’em—you hear that, lost ’em 
in the ’ouse we visited when we come to Venice... Now, 
whotcha think of that!” he threw at her brazonly, 
watching for the effect. 

“My God, you didn’t lose them?” 

“Lost ’em, so sure’s I stand ’ere!” 

“Where?” she gasped. 

“I told you, dammit...in the whore-house....” 

She covered her face with her hands— 

“The whole bag, Jock?” 

“The whole—dam’—outfit!” 

She did not know whether to believe him, he lied, he 



204 Merry-Go-Round 

thieved, he stole, he was as liable to lose them as to 
pawn them and spend the money.... 

“Are you sure?...there was a stone in there worth 
eighty thousand kronen —my blue diamond—oh my 
God, you’ve lost my jewels, the whole bag, everything 
was in there, everything I owned! Now what are we 
going to do?” 

He waited for her to subside. He had the bag in 
his pocket that moment, he never slept without it. 
That he determined to use in the proper time and place. 
He had taken her second-to-last express cheque. Now 
she had nothing—he could afford to cut loose and the 
jewels had a singular little purpose, a mission in his 
pocket...they would make him his fortune—millions! 
He had a scheme. He understood horses. . . . 

With that Jock went out and Gisella thought herself 
very wretched. She waited until evening—evening 
passed into night. She coughed—insistently. It was 
nothing in reality, only she felt mentally lethargic and 
unable to think with her former brilliant wit. . . By 
midnight she heard his key in the door. The room was 
rather wretched. He stepped in. 

“Get out of here!” 

That was what he said when he stepped in and 
switched on the light. She had not gone to bed. 

“Get out 1” 

“What do you want?” wretchedly she inquired, 
dazed. . . 

“I wantcha to get out,” he was smelling of drink, 
“take your bags, take whotcha got and get out!” 

She still did not comprehend. 

“You hear me?... Annie, come here...” he called in 
a girl from the hall, brazon, with a highly painted face 
and cheap finery...picked up in the Cafe Martin, where 
he drank with the bookmakers... “Come in here, we 
got the place to ourselves... you, get out!” 

The girl with the cheap finery started to laugh— 


Punch and Judy 


205 


“Who you got here?” 

“Nobody! get out!” 

Gisella saw him throw her bags to the door. One 
was empty. She didn’t want that. The second one she 
took, took her hat—it was no use to argue. She got 
out. 

“...Hey, come back here!” Jock yelled after her, 
no sooner was she in the hall. “Come back, you 
scum!” . . . He sprang at her in a sudden fury and 
with inspiration wrenched the platinum wedding ring, 
bought by herself for her own final compromise with 
public repute, from her third finger, wetting the finger 
between his teeth with his tainted saliva... he gave her 
a shove— 

“Get out!” 

He threw her empty traveling bag after her! 


XXVI 


THE RUTSCHBAHN 1 

She had only two hundred dollars left. Her kronen 
were in lire, about five hundred. She had no place to 
go. The Italian officer, whom previously she had 
known from the house of assignation, left two days be¬ 
fore for Palermo. 

She was now alone, held a satchel, half filled, in one 
hand, her hat in the other... she mechanically put the 
bag down on the dimly lit little street, adjusted her hat, 
smiled a heartbroken smile—not for herself, for the 
groom upstairs—and looked about her. . . All was 
silence, the silence of a vast night in Venice with stars 
shining from the sky like artificial torches. . . 

Where should she go? She had enough to keep her 
in plain decency a few weeks. If she wrote her father— 
it was a last recourse—she might receive some help, 
although Austria was now sewed up, tight, excited, 
crazy, distracted, with a war on her hands.... She had 
never written him. Would he care to hear from her 
in all this turmoil and with the remembrance of how she 
had thrown over his selection for her husband, the 
Count von Hohenegg?.... She doubted it. Yet, so 
long as her money lasted, she had a chance to live and 
breathe. 

How foul of Jock to have thrown her out at night! 
That was all that touched Gisella at that moment—at 
midnight. Why didn’t he wait, until it was morning, 
she could see her way, have it out with him? She should 
have had it out with him, but he would have beaten her, 
she would have loved him all the more and the parting 
would have been still harder. 


1 The Toboggan. 


206 




The Rutschhahn 


207 


All these thoughts trembled on the edge of her mind, 
confused, jumbled with one another... nothing was 
clear.... 

She wandered about and finally thought of that one 
place she felt she would be welcome—it was a shelter, it 
was open all hours...and she spent a good deal of 
money there... Gisella went to the house of the Calle 
Barozzi where she had fallen from grace—at least 
from monogamous intercourse—on her entrance to 
Venice. It was open. Nothing is veiled in a hypocriti¬ 
cal manner in foreign city slums... houses of prostitution 
flourish, if not brazonly, still necessarily, and there was 
neither sliding secret panel in place of door nor hidden 
bell. She merely rang and entered, walking up the four 
steps she knew quite well, passing the housekeeper in 
the hallway. . . . 

Before speaking to the proprietress, a fat German 
woman who spoke the language of Italy very badly, 
she went into the general room from force of habit and 
sat down. 

She remembered her five hundred lire. She ordered 
a bottle of wine, as she never drank anything else, and 
tossed off two glasses. . . The room was noisy, 
flooded with light. It smelled from various mixed 
liquors, heavy smoke of tobacco and the nauseating 
odour of human bodies, overwrought and unnaturally 
stimulated. . . Gisella attracted to her table, by rea¬ 
son of her clothes, which were still fine, of good ma¬ 
terial and fitted her form correctly, two young French 
students on a tour of the underworld, having exhausted 
the art treasures of the city—above ground. They sat 
down as if accustomed to the atmosphere and to women 
of questionable character. . . 

“Here long?” they asked her. 

“How do you mean?” she asked, astonished. 

“In this place?” 

“What do you mean?” 


208 


Merry-Go-Round 


“Oh, come...I supposed you were used to that ques¬ 
tion... come now, don’t pretend...you are all here for 
some purpose....” 

Still she did not understand exactly what the young 
rowdies were getting at. . . 

“If you mean—” she stammered at last, “do I live 
here, I do not!” 

She immediately wondered to herself why she 
had said this... was angry with herself. Why 
say something she didn’t mean? She meant to 
stay here! 

Her face flushed and she became aware of an 
unpleasant fact that was only now discovered to her: 
she had an aversion to being there; if not on the surface, 
still deeper down, in her sub-conscious mind...she was 
still too refined. 

They commenced to make game of her— 

“How high and mighty do we become when we want 
to put on airs. Now, my fine little lady, let us order 
some mucilage, something that will stick to the 
tongue... say, Belgian beer, or—” 

“Let me treat you,” said one, referring to the other. 

“No, I’m paying.” 

They began to get into quite an argument. 

“Hang it, bring beer!” finally one shouted, ham¬ 
mering with the head of his cane on the table: “ garqon, 
beer, i rite, vite, depechez-vous!” He kept his orders 
ringing in French without result, and, amid the din, 
it was deafening. . . Until the second boy left the table 
and started for the back room, crying— 

“I am going for it myself, Raoul....take care of the 
little one....” 

“No fear.... how long did you say you were here?” 
recommenced the other insolently. “Come... I must 
have an answer. I don’t want to become—well, you 
know, the joys of life don’t make up for the conse¬ 
quences...not always. I’m a strict young man...all 


The Rutschbahn 


209 


things don’t go with me...” and so he kept up until she 
was dismayed .... 

“I? I have not been here at all! I’m a stranger— 
an outsider. . .” 

“Ooh...well, what difference does that make? None. 
He’s gone, what shall we do, we are alone, but we can’t 
go here. . .” 

The room whirled around her, the evil-coloured 
paper on the walls started to shriek in her ears as if it 
had a voice instead of a colour. . . the sight of what 
was going on, the vile music, voices in every pitch 
grating together in discordant and tremulous accents, 
singing lusty songs, the women dancing—all this went 
against her. Besides, there were disgusting looking 
men with their moustaches trailing with beer and to¬ 
bacco juice, looking into her eyes and at her form. . . 

The student became more ardent, more insistent— 
“Say, missy, I liked the look of you the first minute... 
I knew you didn’t belong here... come, little one, allons- 
nous-enf... you know....I will fix it, we will speak to the 
proprietress, she’ll allow us, we can use these—oh hell! 
here he comes.” 

The other boy was coming, in his hands three bottles 
and three glasses— 

“That’s it...serve yourself. Take ’em quick before 
I drop ’em!” 

He shoved them onto the table. 

The sight of the beer filled her with nausea. She 
could buy champagne... “I never drink that,” she said. 

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he asked astonished... 
“the lady drinks—hell, what do you drink? Raoul, get 
the lady some—some—” 

Raoul started to grumble in his throat, he wanted to 
finish his conversation that he had commenced. 

“Very well, I’ll go again....” 

“No, I’ll go...” 

“I!” 


210 


Merry-Go-Round 


“I!” 

Gisella looked for a way to slip out. She was not 
intoxicated. She had only drunk three glasses of wine, 
which to her was a mere beginning. The students had 
tippled longer than she already. . . 

“I don’t want anything/ 4 she protested, “if it’s 
necessary to drink, drink alone... I am going.” 

“Where to?” 

44 Why is that?” 

“I have had quite enough.” 

“Nothing!” both exclaimed. She started to get up. 
Where was she to go? what to do? 

“I say, my little one, don’t be in such a hurry,” began 
Raoul, “we can buy you some wine...look, see here, I’ve 
got money!” He had it in all his pockets... “Stay a 
while... if it suits you, we’ll go upstairs... it’ll pay you 
well... stay on! Hey, my friend Henri, you look for 
somebody else... she don’t want but one of us—at a 
time...” he started in to wink at his companion, “is that 
right? . . . 

“Well, now, what do you think of that? She was 
dissatisfied... do you think she knew you were sy-” 

The rest of his voice went trailing off into nothing in 
the babel as Gisella reached the door... What her 
scruples were, if any, she could not fathom. She simply 
went. It was not a conscious physical repulsion... she 
did not know the students, one or the other, were not 
in good health, that they were infected, as the saying 
goes, with the crimes of love, too much love, or what is 
the desecration of love. . . . 

She found an ordinary hotel, very simple and plain, 
and was ready to spend the balance of the night in 
maudlin tears over her separation from Jock. 

Now this vile reprobate was drinking himself to in¬ 
toxication in the room of the hotel he formerly occu¬ 
pied with her, with another woman called “Annie.” 

The first fall is the worst fall, since it starts the 



The Rutschbahn 


211 


ardent pleasure devotee on the toboggan which ends in 
the gutter. 

Gisella sat on the bed and cried the morning through. 
When dawn arrived, she was yet dazed, semi-conscious, 
and not at all sleepy, since she felt nothing. She merely 
looked around for her bag—the little one containing 
the single express cheque left to her from sixty like it— 
in order to take out a handkerchief. She noticed blood 
on her lip and hand from biting her lip and clawing the 
bed covering at intervals with her fingers. . . . 

Life was yet good, something still inspired her, love 
and romance and all those Viennese traits which are 
learned with birth in the cradle and are not shaken off 
so easily like dust off the coat collar,—she reached for 
her bag... She opened it—inside were her handker¬ 
chiefs, stained and squeezed together gloves, once white 
now a muddy yellow, some slices of paper, bill heads 
from the hotel last vacated, something else, something 
else, but no express cheque! She looked again, it was 
missing; once more, it was gone! 

Ah, those wretched students! Or she thought it was 
a girl that looked at her from a table as she brushed 
by, waiting for the waiters to pass...from this same 
table the little students came when she attracted them. 
Was it her fault? They came of their own free will, 
she didn’t call them. And now that prostitute—that 
girl— It all came back....ah, what a miserable 
theft!. 

Then Gisella, outraged but not crushed by this last 
misfortune, considered what she should do next: write 
to her father? No, no, no! 

Then one other thing remained. She had a cousin 
living in Venice...a nobleman... he belonged to an old 
house. He was her cousin on her mother’s side, re¬ 
moved by one generation. Duca della Grazia, arro¬ 
gant, conceited, rich, elegant, exclusive... should she 
ask some shelter of della Grazia? 



212 


Merry-Go-Round 


When she decided on this she got up at once. She 
remembered his address but never recalled how she got 
there. She went on foot. That was certain. It was a 
long distance, over cobbled streets and through alleys... 
she finished by riding in a canal boat after spending her 
last loose coin and looking wretched, but aristocratic all 
the same, so the boatman took her. They have a 
singular sentiment—these Venetian boatmen. . . She 
had some trouble with the hotel, too. She never slept 
in the bed but they wanted to charge her all the same... 
this was impossible, she had no funds, so there were 
words, she got out—as she got out, peremptorily, from 
the last hotel with Jock.... 

Duca della Grazia was a colonel in command of the 
Savoia Cavallerio 1 . His palazzo faced the Grand 
Canal on the Piazza San Marco, across from the 
Quadri 2 , in the very center of romantic Venice. . . Her 
entrance here was more spectacular than pitiful...his 
young daughter, Donna Fiora, knew her at once! Time 
had not altered her... Donna Fiora had been a guest in 
her house two seasons back. . . . 

Fiora lay all the misery of her cousin, without re¬ 
serve, on the conditions which were upsetting Europe. 
She thought probably all Europe was to blame that a 
cousin of hers, a young kinswoman, should have been 
reduced without funds. Only revolutions could do this, 
war conditions, social perversity. The upper class 
ruled, was infallible.... 

However she came to this conclusion, Gisella quickly 
disillusioned her... 

“I am here without money and without clothes, just 
as you see me, because I ran away from Vienna with 
my groom and he threw me off!” She said it brazenly, 
with her usual amount of truth. . . 

a Savoy Cavalry stationed in Naples. 

2 famous cafe, that, along with the Florian, opposite, is one of the 
landmarks of Venice. 



The Rutschhahn 


213 


“Shocking!” said Fiora, and looked upon her as a 
very remarkable woman. This was interesting, ex¬ 
pansive.... “Come right in and stay in,” she said, 
“papa is in Rome...” 

The duke was in Rome...urgent matters called, mat¬ 
ters of state.... 

When Gisella was established in the house, due to 
the generosity and simple mindedness, or call it admira¬ 
tion of daring, of her cousin, Donna Fiora della 
Grazia, her young brother came in to see her... 

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “my cousin from Vienna! How 
is it in Vienna, cousin?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered, “it is four months 
since I was there.” 

“Four months!” 

“Four months.” 

“Doing what? Where have you been?” 

“Right here,” she answered... 

“And only came to see us now!” . . . 

“Come, leave her, Marino, she has had a tiresome 
trip....” Fiora drew him out of earshot, and in her 
admiration added: “she has run off from home, eloped 
with a man—her lover, they fell out, here she is penni¬ 
less!” . . . 

“You don’t mean it!” uttered the young reprobate, 
who saw some advantage in this to him, as he always 
admired his dashing Viennese cousin. “Well, well....” 

“Say nothing of it to her.” 

“Of course not!” 

“All right....” 

He had, however, a friend. They were, like the col¬ 
lege students in the house of illfame, companions, fa¬ 
miliars... they did nothing without each other: to live, 
to love, to despair, sign and plot.... 

“Well, well,” he repeated to himself... “this is en¬ 
tirely interesting!” And he went to Gisella, and, after 
several minutes, convinced her he was quite the most 


ZH 


Merry-Go-Round 


sincere admirer she ever had in her life. Run off with 
a groom? La, la!.... And, at that, he made himself 
agreeable, which meant disagreeable under the circum¬ 
stances, as the affair was within the sacred circle—the 
home. And she discovered the best way to keep the 
regard of the young man and his sister was to give in 
to the attentions of the young man and to keep the 
knowledge of so doing from his sister.... 

This programme Gisella followed to the letter. She 
ate with the sister and slept with the brother.... After 
this, his friend paid them a visit and months rolled 
around in the gayest companionship in the world. One 
fine hour followed another...life was song, delight and 
amorosity! She would not have left if Jock Steers had 
begged on his knees for the rest of his life... She for¬ 
got all about Jock Steers and his sordid infatuation. 
She was cured, delivered from the sink, only to be in 
worse position from the cure than the illness—she was 
headed for the cesspool and the aim was, unfortunately 
for this woman’s reckless nonchalance and outlook 
upon feverish life, too exact.... she aimed—and fell—at 
one stroke!... 

On the 23rd of May, 1915, something very interest¬ 
ing took place in the history of Italy—a national event! 

Don Marino della Grazia followed this by leaving 
Venice and going toward the Trentino... Guilio Labia, 
the young friend, a lieutenant in the cavalry the same as 
her cousin and late paramour, was wounded in a duello, 
which kept him at home, and he paid her visits as he 
recovered and tried to place himself in as good favour 
with her as she had been with her cousin, the departed 
Marino. . . But love is cunning and cannot be forced, 
even the poor imitation of it—she detested this Guilio 
as much as her cousin pleased her... So Gisella was 
right in thinking she was not cut out for the life of a 
demi-mondaine... she was too temperamental. 

She told him she loathed him, his sullen face, the scar 



The Rutschhahn 


215 


on his nose, his beard, his breath—everything! She 
was not compromising with her dishonour... she had no 
honour.... 

So Guilio was as bitter as he was homely and disa¬ 
greeable. He denounced her to the authorities. She 
was the daughter of the war minister. He was Aus¬ 
trian. She was Austrian. They were in Italy. War 
was on! She had another place that was waiting for 
her when they took her out of the Palazzo della 
Grazia. The little wretch, in spite, saw that she got 
there, penniless, companionless, and almost minus her 
clothes... It was in Caserta, about an hour out from 
Naples, in central Italy—the convent of the Sisters of 
Charity —Convento della Snore di Carita, used for the 
internment of noblewomen who were quasi prisoners 
of war. 


XXVII 


THE FOUR MUSKETEERS OF THE COURT 

Yes, war was on! 

On July 23, 1914—fatal date!—around the audi¬ 
ence hall of the Emperor Franz-Josef, in Austria, stood 
groups of officers, chamberlains, generals, colonels, 
Hungarian life-guards, Austrian, any number of other 
privileged persons who were to see the fate of twenty- 
nine countries, great and small, go into the dust heap! 
all by the stroke of a pen! all in the space of a 
minute! 

This moment was brought about by the Emperor 
Franz-Josef’s signature to a very singular paper which 
lay before him on his desk after the murders of the 
Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the Duchess Hohen- 
berg at Serajevo... twenty-five days after, an eternity! a 
spasm in history! a whole age of diplomacy and politics 
and intrigue and dissolution, summed up in the space of 
twenty-five days! The emperor signed the ultimatum 
to Serbia. 

Thereafter, Serbia, not wishing to give up her sov¬ 
ereignty, her independence, all the hard won fruits of 
the Balkan war, yet wishing to avoid another war, com¬ 
promised—offered to go part way, as the saying is, to 
keep the peace in chaotic Europe. . . But Russia inter¬ 
fered, Germany interfered, fate interfered, and, lastly, 
the Emperor Franz-Josef, against his wishes, we are 
told! interfered, and the whole international system 
was broken into bits in a moment! 

July 25th, Austria withdrew her minister from Bel¬ 
grade. Sinister move. 

July 26th, England offered suggestions for compro¬ 
mise from London, which were refused. 

216 



The Four Musketeers 


217 


July 27th, Austria-Hungary declared war...the empe¬ 
ror sat again in his study, a paper before him, his pen 
shook in his hand. . . Down went the pen, the ink fol¬ 
lowed after, a word spelled out, another—so the heav¬ 
ens rained blood! 

When the news was carried into the audience cham¬ 
ber, Rudi and Nicki and Franzl and Eitel stood like 
little musketeers waiting for the explosion, and when it 
came—they looked at one another. 

Everybody was speechless. It is in hours like this 
that men look at one another but have nothing to say, a 
moment passes, another—then clamour seizes them, 
they have to talk, rapidly, fluently, discussing every¬ 
thing—and have still nothing to say! 

So it was at this time. The minister of war, von 
Steinbrueck, who stood at the emperor’s right hand and 
implored him to sign the little paper after the German 
ambassador, who stood on the emperor’s left, signalled 
him to do so,—came into the audience chamber, every¬ 
body looked expectantly— 

“War!” he said. 

Now, when this was over, Franzl became very se¬ 
rious— 

“It is terrible—a terrible thing!” he said, and re¬ 
peated this over and over. . . Franzl was about to 
realise the possibilities, because he had only so recently 
had some very serious events happen in his own life, 
dwarfed by comparison to the episodes shaking Europe, 
but mighty to his own heart nevertheless. . . 

Nicki exclaimed— 

“I have always known that Hungary would have to 
stand behind Austria in some such crisis....it is easy to 
lick Serbia, but Russia—let us look out.” 

Eitel said— 

“My friends, we have only got to say good-bye to 
Vienna long enough to be missed by our sweethearts. 
Such a chance only comes once in our lives. IVir habett 


218 


Merry-Go-Round 


alle gelebt und geliebt...na! so geht es... die Damen 
miissen uns vermissen, yah, Rudif’ 1 . . . 

Rudi, after his usual formula, burst out laughing. . . 

“Well, let us go... does the emperor need us? I 
think not,” and so on, variously, they enquired, found 
they were at liberty, started off together and clasped 
hands and shoulders after the way of true friends and 
brother musketeers... 

Presently Rudi parted from them, as he was a uhlan 
and had a different barracks to leave from—the Prater 
Caserne, which was clear across the city from the 
others. . . Uhlans have the task to investigate the 
strength in men and supplies of the enemy, his fortifica¬ 
tions, redoubts, position of the opposing troops, their 
ammunition, if possible, the quantity of cannon, location 
of general staff headquarters, hospitals, disposition of 
regiments, and, lastly, to come at gun-muzzles with any 
of the reconnoitering troops of the opposing forces if 
they should be unlucky enough to venture too far or 
ride in or out of a wood or on a hidden road at the 
wrong time. 

With these things in mind, Rudi was a very capable 
officer. Especially as he had so little disposition to 
realise anything and could be shot and have his head 
sent off of his body without squeamishness or qualm, 
and probably never be the wiser. 

Nicki, on the other hand, was a very sullen officer in 
time of war. He was earnest and even sarcastic, be¬ 
lieving his mount could carry him to victory anywhere— 
that he rode like the devil and never expected anyone 
to catch him, since hell is the natural abode of devils 
and they would surely go there! He condemned them 
in advance. Nicki was a hussar. . . . 

Franzl and Eitel were dragoons, of different compa¬ 
nies, since each was a captain; they even belonged to 

1M We have all lived and loved . . .” (credited to Heine) . . . “so 
it is, the ladies must miss us, yes, Rudi?” 



The Four Musketeers 


219 


different regiments, and wore differently coloured col¬ 
lars and cuffs on their uniforms in time of peace. . . . 

Now all regretted that the exigencies of the moment 
tore them apart... They could not, like the traditional 
companions—the four guardsmen of Alexandre Dumas’ 
romances—who rode together, fought together, hunted 
the queen’s diamond buckles together and gambled and 
saved each others’ necks together! stay in this punitive 
little war—this excursion into neighbouring Serbia— 
together, to come home, after being in Belgrade, and 
tell what a fine time King Peter gave them by leaving 
them his city to carouse in, far from Vienna and the 
usual tide of things. . . . 

Franzl had been allocated to a swivel-chair. He be¬ 
longed to the group during the arrangements for war, 
who sit with spurs on their heels and scratch the tops of 
desks, and who often remain there if family connections 
are potent enough, or quantity of money, or general 
characteristics that appeal, like love for the emperor 
and desire to be near him,—so that the office mechanics 
have more use for him supposedly than his regiment at 
the front in battle. He could have continued at this 
occupation, which is safe, sound and amiable. . . 

But Franzl was at heart a straight forward fellow, 
and believed in getting to the point at issue in the short¬ 
est manner possible. So he sent in his resignation, said 
to Eitel: “I am going to the front!” to which Eitel re¬ 
plied, “Good... that is the place to get scars to warm 
the hearts of the ladies!” and, aside from this object, 
which was characteristic of the Prince of Hochmut but 
really did not enter into Franzl’s calculations, as he 
had had just recently two such disastrous affairs with 
ladies,—he entered the regimental office, swimming 
with excitement, and earnestly approached his colonel’s 
desk— 

“I most obediently report for duty, sir,” he said in 
service uniform. 


220 


Merry-Go-Round 


“Good!” His colonel rose and shook his hand: “we 
are glad to have you with us again... I thought you 
would not stick to that swivel-chair—it’s a good occu¬ 
pation for a gray head.” Which was true... “Now, 
see here,” said the colonel, “we march day after to¬ 
morrow....” 

Franzl bowed and accepted his orders. . . He was 
placed in command of the Fourth Escadrone 1 , Sixth 
Dragoon Regiment, and withdrew to put himself in 
readiness to act during the two days that intervened. . . 

When the time for parting came, Vienna was in her 
most martial garb... Flags fluttered, bands played in 
the parks, before the Hofburg, at every crossing and 
in between... There was a festive air which kept up 
because the people were so consumed with anxiety, send¬ 
ing their loved ones off with a gay air, assumed in place 
of the tears that were bound to follow. . . everyone 
wore some decoration, either a flag or a flower... oak 
leaves festooned the heads of horses carrying riders 
mounted with spurs and rifles at the saddle, pistols in 
holsters, ready to leap out.... 

And now the streets were lined as far as the eye 
could see—thousands of women and old pensioners and 
boys and girls stood and awaited the grand sight... 
Vienna was going to war! 

The procession came, field guns passed, train 
wagons...over the same Ringstrasse, past the Bellario 
where the wind always blows on the hottest days. The 
Wiener Wald was sending an especially cool breeze 
down the wide avenue bordered with handsome squares, 
along the bridle-path, driveways and the shaded prome¬ 
nades that had the odour of violets blended with the 
royal manure from the stables... The route would take 
them through the Schwartzenberg Platz up the Prince 
Eugene Strasse to the Siidbahnhof. . . 2 And among 


'company of men numbering ISO. 

2 Prince Eugene of Savoy captured Belgrade for Austria in 1714. 



The Four Musketeers 


221 


these spectators stood the concessionaires from the 
Wurstelprater—all those to whom war meant the end 
of their business, the shutting up of their booths, be¬ 
cause pleasure must give way to stern necessity and 
laughter to heart throbs. 

Here stood the fat woman, the dwarfs on the shoul¬ 
ders of each other, several of the barkers who wore 
their checkered suits decorated with the nation’s colours, 
also the giant from the Himalaya mountains who had 
never been beyond the Kronprinz Rudolf-Briicke or 
outer confines of the Prater at the extreme end; the 
thin man, the lady without lower body, standing on her 
feet....they were here, there, sprinkled among less pub¬ 
lic characters. . . And Agnes was among them, with 
Bartholomew, the hunchback from the Wundersalon. 
They stood side by side, she was four inches taller than 
he, who merely topped five feet due to his deformity, 
a crooked back. . . But she hid herself, leaning in 
such a position beside a stout tree that only her head 
was visible and little of that. Her eyes peered out, she 
was looking querulously, and on the arrival of the 
Fourth Escadrorte, her heart commenced a tattoo that 
threatened to drive it right out of her bosom! Franzl 
was in this company, she knew his regiment, the troops 
of other platoons passed before her. . . 

Then, suddenly, there he was! 

She hid herself, drawing back, and before her pale 
face passed, first the colonel, who rode very stiff and 
saluted without a flicker of emotion, and then the cap¬ 
tain, turning his eyes directly toward her, did not see 
her, passed onward bowing slightly, his mount pranc¬ 
ing, very debonair—as the Count von Hohenegg always 
was—and with oak leaves on his helmet. 

How the helmet shone underneath, dazzling her al¬ 
ready sparkling eyes, moist with tears! 

He was going to war, to fight for freedom and coun¬ 
try and revenge, and to die, perhaps. . . 


222 


Merry-Go-Round 


It is an age-old pursuit and an age-old feeling that 
accompanies it: glory for the man and a certain ecstacy 
above personal safety,—and sorrow for the woman. 
Millions had felt it before her... now she felt as if she 
were enduring it for the first time in history, and all 
alone. 

“Well, that is a gay young fellow!” said Bartholo¬ 
mew, not recognising Franzl in his uniform. . . “Look 
how he rides...” Franzl was saluting with his sword. 

“If he comes home with two good arms an’ legs-” 

the rest of his voice was drowned in the general uproar, 
everybody crying at once to send off the heroes, those 
who marched afoot and the gallant young officers who 
rode at the head. 

Agnes, as soon as her own eyes cleared, perceived that 
the hunchback was turning a very melancholy profile to 
her. He seemed to be struggling with some of his own 
emotions, looked away... presently she saw a large tear 
welling down his cheek. 

“What is it, Bartholomew?” she managed to say 
in his ear, “have you seen someone ?....” 

He shook his head, “No...” 

She slipped her hand into his, kindly, realising all at 
once—it was his deformity... “I can’t go,” she remem¬ 
bered he said at the Prater, “I can’t go, they won’t take 
me... I’m—I’m not good—for—anythin’....” 

“Oh, yes you are, Bartholomew,” she answered him, 
“you’re good for a whole lot!” 

“What?” 

She was forced to hesitate...what was he good for? 
how could a crippled man fight?... 

“You see...you see,” he gasped, “only those go whom 
God wills to go... it’s an unjust God! unjust! unjust!”... 

He wanted to go and could not; another, in the ranks 
of the soldiers, would have given his straight back for a 
crooked one in order to stay at home. 

Nepomuck Navratil, the peasant from Sodowa, Bo- 




The Four Musketeers 


223 


hemian who bribed two regimental surgeons to escape 
military duty, who followed his master because he had 
faith only in that master and not in the State or the 
fundaments of war, who feared for his life as if that 
life were the most valuable in all the world,—cringed, 
became palsied at the thought of shooting, killing an¬ 
other human being or having himself killed... He was 
now led, in spite of all his efforts, to the slaughter!... 
He had to go! Musket at shoulder, blanket and pack 
on back, step-to-toe, he marched. . . sworn enemy to 
violence. ... a coward, a Putzer —button-polisher, not 
warrior! . . . 

“Ooh, look—see, there is someone I know!” cried 
Agnes joyously, leaping out of the line, anxious actually 
to embrace him. “Here is our friend who brought me 
the flowers.” He was connected with Franz Meier. 
The thought warmed her...she threw herself directly 
before him— 

...“A flower...a flower...from me this time!” she 
gasped, and held up a single acacia spray before him. . . 

Nepomuck should have taken it and worn it... In¬ 
stead he turned to her a face like pewter...so gray, so 
ashen from his terror, that she cried out in amaze¬ 
ment!.... 

The band swept up with its military airs. 

“Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser . 5,1 

Everybody sang, carrying on a tremendous cadence... 
only she saw that ashen face, more terrible in its violent 
emotions than any engagement on the Serbian frontier, 
—defiant, but going to war. . . 

It haunted her...she could not sing but burst out into 
violent sobbing. . . . 


Austro-Hungarian national air. 




XXVIII 


THE GLEANERS 

The war had closed the Wurstelprater, the booths 
were boarded up and the canvas covering that was 
spread every midnight around and above the merry-go- 
round had been permanently fastened and nailed into 
place. 

Everybody had left, the men, who were capable, to 
fight, the women to go into hospitals, in the foundries, 
on the street cars as front or rear guards, and as wait¬ 
resses, street-sweepers, whatever was formerly done by 
the male sex and now devolved on the women as one 
after another regiment was made up, called in and sent 
to the front. . . 

A complete year—from the beginning of August un¬ 
til the beginning of August, twelve months later—had 
been spent, and the peace which was only broken be¬ 
tween Austria and Serbia at first, now involved all the 
great powers, leaving only the arbiter across the seas 
to judge of the chaos reigning three thousand miles 
away! Italy was in since May... that aggravated things 
with Austria as her troops had to be in three directions 
at once. Russia’s participation cut off the estates of the 
nobles in Galicia. Franzl, unfortunately for him, had 
his income from this source. Others, by the score, were 
in the same boat...great changes were in store. . . . 

The Prater was covered with snow all through the 
bleak winter, it remained as if covered—literally with¬ 
out thaw, being deserted except for the waste lands, a 
sort of swamp behind the park formerly fitted with 
cranes for unloading barges that came up the river from 
the Balkans, later taking on especial life through the 
mobilisation of troops... Now it still throbbed with 

224 


The Gleaners 


225 


military preparation...otherwise the chestnuts bloomed 
and the birds fluttered through the branches, chittering 
to themselves; the cafes still held latched doors, Vene- 
dig in Wien was silent as the Riesenrad, revolving for 
the last time the night of July 31st in 1914. . . 

Vienna was a different city. Although the buildings 
were the same, the avenues as broad, the business very 
lively, Radetzky still sat his bronze horse before the 
Am Hof, looking out into space, the “Stock im Eisen” 
was fastened as ever in the Graben, to the west was 
the Danube, the Kahlenberg and Leopoldberg 1 , to the 
north the immense Rotunda, to the east the great plain 
of the Marchfeld with the distant Carpathians against 
the horizon, and south, the Schneeberg 2 .... still Vienna 
was not the same...it was poverty stricken, the poorer 
classes had become so much poorer, and prodigality 
gave place to conservation in everything: food, drink, 
wits, flour, human life, morals... It was a different 
Vienna. 

The harvests came in before the first hostilities. 
When the second year arrived and the harvests should 
have been as heavy, if not heavier, than the season pre¬ 
vious, the man-power was at the front and crops fell 
below the necessary standard. Starvation commenced 
to creep on padded feet into the market-stalls. Not an 
official’s home but was well supplied. Not a restaurant 
but gave out food, in smaller portions, but sufficient 
still... The rise of a giant is from the roots, and, 
whether it is a tree or a ladder, the first rung has to be 
mounted before the second or the third can be reached. 
Conditions commenced this way in Austria at the bot¬ 
tom. The poor man had little before the war, he now 
had nothing. The medium classes had more, little now 
remained. The rich—were always the rich, but at last 


a two beautiful mountains behind the Danube River, visible from 
Vienna. 

2 very imposing mountain, part of the Roxalpe range. 



226 


Merry-Go-Round 


the giant was to reach the topmost rung and then the 
ladder would over-balance and the whole structure top¬ 
ple down! 

Agnes Urban, whose little bread was taken away 
from her when the Volksprater closed its doors, found 
occupation easy to get as there was so much to do and 
so comparatively few to do it... She worked in the es¬ 
tablishment of “Brust and Baugh.” This was a manu¬ 
factory for artificial limbs... She worked every day, 
earned good money as wages swam high. But if she 
had waited until every position were filled, which hap¬ 
pened often with the select positions,—she would have 
had little, eaten once a day, if that often, and found 
her back-bone and her collar-bone growing together. . . . 

She started the hour after securing a little tenement 
garret, after the fat woman, Mrs. Rossreiter, and her¬ 
self left the Prater with a hand-wagon and two trunks 
upon it—their sole possessions. The fat woman could 
not take her JVundersalon along! She had to leave 
her capital behind, she had no occupation. . . Barthol¬ 
omew took his monkey and his bundle of clothes. These 
were extended on a stick. He had, besides, in his pocket 
a lottery ticket— 

“Number 2..7..9,” he said impressively to Agnes, on 
parting at the doors, “I had a dream...two was smoke, 
seven fire, nine brimstone—I’ll win yet, you see.... it 
ain’t for nothin’ they keep this lottery goin’; it’s four 
years I been playin’ an’ luck wins out.” . . . 

She could have told him that luck always wins out be¬ 
cause it is luckier sometimes to die than to live. But this 
morbid reflection, although she felt that her heart would 
burst just then, did not leave her lips. She smiled wanly 
instead, waved her hand at the voyager, who looked as 
if he were going on a long journey over the mountains 
and seas with his pack on his back, and watched him 
out of sight. . . . Bartholomew was going into Vienna 
in search of an occupation. 


The Gleaners 


227 


She stood perfectly pensive and gazed up into the 
sunlight. September was already advanced. It was 
time to remove. She had another interest than her own 
to look out for. The knowledge was just then very in¬ 
tense within her... she was without food, shelter, her 
clothing was much mended and frayed at the edges, her 
purse slim, her courage low, her heart too full to be of 
any use, save to overflow... Agnes had taken the fat 
woman into her confidence: she was going to have a 
child... not now, in months, perhaps, but all she remem¬ 
bered was Mrs. Rossreiter saying, “Poor child, poor 
child, poor child, it is always that way...no different... 
and he has gone to war and will never return, never, 
never!” 

She added to her misery just that much. Yes, she 
was going to have a baby, and what would this say and 
what would that say?! But there was nobody to say 
anything. The population had all changed, everybody 
who was together had fallen apart, families, locations, 
districts were all destroyed, new faces were where the 
old ones had been, strange eyes greeted each other in 
every part of the city, and the soldiers were made and 
soldiers destroyed, and everybody worked to support 
them. That was the war at home...that was the way 
life became a merry-go-round, a melee, on the Serbian 
border where Franzl was going, on the Galician where 
his estates were, on the Italian where his former fiancee 
was interned, in Vienna where his child was about to 
be born!. 

The artificial limb factory offered the best wages 
and the work was not too difficult. Agnes soon mas¬ 
tered it. She was working with the aim in sight: if it 
is a little boy, he shall be Franzl, if girl, she shall be 
called Francisca, and she repeated these names over and 
over and worked from morning till night. 

She lived in the tenement garret with Mrs. Ross¬ 
reiter. They cooked their coffee over an oil stove. Be- 



228 


Merry-Go-Round 


fore long the fuel gave out, they were sitting in their 
outer coats in the room at night... the fat woman became 
asthmatic and wheezed and could not climb the steps, so 
she stayed at home. As cold as the winter grew, they 
remained without heat, the Danube was caked with ice, 
they heard stories of the army’s sufferings in the north, 
the Serbian victories in the south; the giant wheel in 
the Prater remained as still as the night it ceased revolv¬ 
ing, they saw only its outlines by clear day from their 
window; and hour after hour passed in the same mor¬ 
bid monotony by months. . . . 

Then the year was over... Francisca was born, she 
had startling little blue eyes and was the image of her 
mother. . . . 

“Such an angel! such a perfect little angel!” the fat 
woman greeted her: “never have I seen such a good 
child and such a quiet child, an’ so pretty.... In solchem 
Ungliick a so schenes Kind zu habe!...nein, das is 
merkwerdig J ” 1 .... 

She was right. Out of the chaos of poverty, ill- 
health, lowness of spirits, the sights that are shocking, 
wounded returning, beggars commencing to fill the 
streets, work overpowering those who could work, the 
balance were cripples and unfit,—came this beautiful 
blossom. It was like an orchid on a dung-heap. She 
was pensive and gave the fat woman scarcely any trou¬ 
ble, as she had taken charge of her while her mother 
worked, after the necessary period. . . . 

Agnes adored her baby...she was now four months 
old. 

One day, leaving the factory as early as possible—it 
was still daylight, the month being August,—she 
stopped in a butcher’s shop that was marked “Pferde- 
fleisch und JVurstwaren.” This meant that the butcher 
sold horse-flesh here as well as sausage meat made of 

1M In such misery one should have such a beautiful child! No, it 
is remarkable.” (Low German.) 



The Gleaners 


229 


other ingredients... It was shocking but it was true. 
Why become nauseated at horse-flesh? it was as good 
as cow-flesh, as ox-flesh. The Viennese, distinguished 
for their culinary tastes, for their fine and discerning 
choice of viands, ate horse-flesh with a relish. It was a 
sign of the times. . . 

So she went in and bought a single pair of the little 
round sausages, smaller than usual, very expensive. The 
price was staggering. 

She took these and went on to a green-grocer’s...it 
was the same. Lettuce brought forty kronen y white 
turnips fifty, kohlrabi, radishes, sugar, beans, flour, tal¬ 
low candles.... what could she buy? and her salary was 
considered large! 

With these small packages, she left and walked rap¬ 
idly to her tenement. It was as near as possible to 
the factory. She could walk it in ten or twelve min¬ 
utes... On the way she passed a lot that had been 
empty...it was now filled with people, women mostly, 
and small children... Men there were too, but it was 
the women that caught her eye...they stooped, picking 
up things from the lot, parcels, boxes, all sorts of ex¬ 
traneous matter... She knew it was this by the odour, 
foul and smelling like fresh and stale mixed swill. . . . 

Agnes halted and observed this phenomenon for a 
while... what was it? Her heart gave a violent lurch 
in her breast; it was the municipal garbage heap, or, at 
least, one of these: the offal of hundreds of kitchens, 
hopelessly discarded bones of steaks, chops, legs of 
animals slaughtered to fill the middle-class paunches 
and the bellies of officialdom. Here hung the gleaners, 
poor and less than poor—famished, hollow-eyed, 
shrunken-chested, the first rung of that ladder which 
is class distinction, on which the ogre, Starvation, had 
already set the imprint of his foot.... 

She was impelled to run, but recalled there was no 
fuel in the house. No fuel...the month was August, 


230 


Merry-Go-Round 


but food had to be cooked to go into the stomach 
cavities hot. She shuddered and walked into the lot 
upon the heaps of rubbish. She could now distinguish 
the offal: hills of cans, shrunken lettuce leaves, parsnip 
tops, corn husks, rags, soiled and frayed papers, black¬ 
ened kettle-covers, not copper but tin, and cabbage ends 
where the hard part meets the stem. Little mounds 
rose of this and that, all foul, all odourous...bits segre¬ 
gated by the busy workers. 

The women had dirty skirts of very bad material. 
Their faces were streaked but they were good faces... 
They had bindings over their heads, looking like peas¬ 
ants. Their feet were badly shod. Some walked bare¬ 
footed. The little boys were all half-naked and play¬ 
ing around the undulating lot as if the game were 
needle-in-the-haystack or some such diversion... Here 
was a mother with several hampers and half a dozen 
little brats, all squirming like mice in a bin . . . 

Presently she saw some boxes, black, grimy, that had 
held wet vegetables from a store, thrown down here... 
she broke the boxes apart. She forgot all about the 
gleaners. She made narrow slats and bound them to¬ 
gether with string from one of her packages; and all 
this while others were coming to take the places of 
those, who, with filled pails and aprons wrapped around 
these discoveries hugged to their breasts and staggering 
under the weight of kitchen sewage, left the municipal 
pile... strange and inhuman procession . . . 

She was about to leave when a woman next to her 
leaned over and caught an empty bone from under the 
pile of slats. She drew it out. It was white and long 
and already bleached from lying in the sun. 

“There is nothing on that,” thought Agnes, but she 
saw her place it with some others in a scrap of paper 
she was carrying. She moved on. The woman stooped 
again and brought up another derelict. It was like 
fishing the skeleton of an old ship from the ocean’s 


The Gleaners 


231 


bottom, rotting and disintegrating from water and 
time.... She put these particles together, nursing them; 
she even overturned a large heap to get at the bottom, 
figuring, no doubt, it would be richer here. But the pile 
had been overturned and overturned... What was orig¬ 
inally deposited was no more to be found than wheat 
in chicken yards where hens scratch and claw. . . Only 
dirt remained mingled with this and that—what is 
usually found in alleyways. . . 

And then the woman looked familiar, or she had a 
back, turned to Agnes, that was so. Her coat was 
green, she had no waist underneath. The day was hot 
but she carried her coat on her shoulders nevertheless, 
so that, when faced at the front and stooping down, her 
breasts could be seen...they were firm and white, so 
she must be a young woman.... 

And who was this woman? 

Agnes asked herself the question. 

Someone she knew? impossible! She looked again, 
more closely, followed her, observing her from the 
back, the front.... Her shawl fell off, a black fringe 
that uncovered her face and left her head bare. The 
hair was dark but streaked with white. 

If she would raise her head— 

She did so. It was a familiar head. 

The eyes looked at her. 

Agnes would never have known who this gleaner of 
old bones was had not the eyes lit up and instantly the 
woman called her name! 

“It is I, yes, Agnes,” she responded.... 

“And it is I, Marianka!” 

“How old you have grown!” she said involun¬ 
tarily. . . . 


XXIV 


all-souls' day 

Marianka had aged many years in one... Since leav¬ 
ing the Wurstelprater the morning after Schani 
Huber’s murder, when she was arrested and had to 
stand trial, everything had taken place in her life. 

She was acquitted. She was not guilty. The trial 
dragged out to a long conclusion, yet here she was now, 
out of prison and starving, which was worse than if she 
had been condemned to hard labour because then she 
would have had something to eat.... 

“I have been out three days,” she said with the 
greatest effort, “I can hardly stand and have eaten 
only twice since I ate with the jail ladle... it was a bad 
hour for me when Schani died.” And she bemoaned 
her fate as if the living proprietor of the Ringelspiel 
had done anything in their life together but abuse 
her.... 

“Have they ever found out who killed him?” Agnes 
asked. 

“Not I, and that is a sure thing!” 

“What have you there?” 

“Bones; you see, that is all the government gives 
you to eat after it has robbed you.” 

“What did they take from you, Marianka?” said 
Agnes gently. 

“My time...all that a poor woman has.” 

“Well now, come with me...” 

“Where?” 

“To my home.” 

“Where is that? You speak as if you’d gotten hold 
of somethin’...” 

“I am workin’ in the factory of Brust an’ Baugh, 

232 


All Souls’ Day 


233 


kilnstliche Arme und Beine...” she responded, “we 
have more work than we can do.” 

“Now, why didn’t somebody tell me...an’ me starvin’ 
an’ there’s work to do...” 

Agnes embraced her, shocked at the poor woman’s 
misery of mind as well as body—“Throw those old 
bones away, Marianka...we’ve got enough for you, 
too... come along, it’s easy to make room for another. 
One has only got to move a half foot to the right or 
left an’ the room’s big enough for four.” . . . 

They smiled together wanly, and home they went, 
up the flight of three long, narrow stairs to the top land¬ 
ing, where they lived under one roof. 

“Who’s here?” commenced Marianka, when she was 
exhausted by her climb and sank outside for a rest in 
front of the door... 

“You’ll see...only let me open. We are here all to¬ 
gether...and you can get a place by me in the factory... 
only now come in and see who is inside...” 

There is pride in the heart of every mother. 
Whether the time is peace or war, the child natural or 
legitimate, it’s the same...offspring is offspring, as long 
as the world moves an emperor will take life but a 
mother will give it. 

“Aah-ha, see here now...” they all started to speak 
together, “who is this? who is that? Marianka Huber! 
Aurora Rossreiter!” 

The fat woman fell into the lean woman’s arms, 
almost dragging her to the floor: “Is it you? is this so... 
do I see Marianka?” 

“You see me an’ it’s all due to a pile of rubbish—an 
ash-heap... Do you know, Aggie, I’ve been on every 
pile of bones for a week...no, it seems to me it’s a week, 
it’s only three days! Well, who’s dear little baby is 
that?!” 

Now explanations were a great deal warmer in 
coming, if this could be possible. . . When they were 


234 


Merry-Go-Round 


over, there was time to cook and think. They lived 
directly under the roof where it sloped, coming down 
in four directions so the room was narrow, high, deso¬ 
late, surrounded by yellow billows of smoke from chim¬ 
neys still able to vomit vile coal bought at high prices. 
On sunny days the single window gave them some light. 
The fat woman passed most of the day sitting in her 
chair, thinking aloud and rocking with her foot the 
improvised cradle of the daughter of Agnes. She was 
very asthmatic, her breath wheezed out in sounds like 
a blast bellows...but this did not disturb the child, who 
was growing very nicely, now four months old, gave 
nobody any trouble and slept and ate as quietly as a 
little sparrow. 

Agnes’ wages sufficed to keep her, the child and Mrs. 
Rossreiter. 

Marianka, as soon as she recovered, went to work in 
the factory also. So there were two bread-earners. 

The autumn came, the winter passed in cold, endless 
stretches that checked off the months as they sat at 
night in coverings of all sorts to keep themselves warm. 
It was indeed a cheerless winter. . . . Followed the 
spring and the three women looked at one another in 
their attic room and wistfully thought: “Ooh, if the 
Wurstelprater were only open how happy we would all 
be! Together once more and with the old sounds, 
music, smells, thunder of the Rutschbahn, der Genuss 
des Lebens...” 1 How pleasant! stimulating! the old 
atmosphere full of dust so it lay on the candies and 
fruits of the booths half an inch thick... but it was good 
dust and tasted well all the same. 

Agnes said, “I wish this very minute you was standin’ 
on the platform, Mrs. Rossreiter, and the crowd 
surgin’ around your knees... It’s a great feelin’, ain’t 
it?” 

“Nun f yes,” responded the fat woman. She was also 


1 enjoyment of life—said of candy, fruit and nut vendors. 



All Souls’ Day 


235 


carried back to the patois of the Wurstelprater and 
would have said more if her asthma allowed. 

“We’ll combine the two concessions...make one!” 
Marianka said enthusiastically, “we’ll work together, 
hey? the merry-go-round an’ the Punch an’ Judy—the 
best show on the street! Hey, ain’t it great?” . . . 

“Sure, Boniface an’ Bartholomew can work for 
both... Poor Boniface, I wonder where he’s at now?” 
exclaimed Agnes. She also wondered where Barthol¬ 
omew had gone. t 

But the Prater did not open. 

Instead, All-Souls’ Day arrived, the 2nd of Novem¬ 
ber. The summer had pushed after the spring and the 
Church of Rome was about to commemorate its faith¬ 
ful deceased by taking into the cemeteries the living 
worshippers with asters and black crepe to decorate 
the graves. 

Agnes and Marianka went, taking wreaths from 
the soldiers on the street who were crippled from the 
front and made and sold the rings of flowers for a few 
pennies... They took the busline running directly to 
the gates of the interment grounds, and carried their 
wreaths with them along with their faded memories, 
Agnes of the illusion of first love with Franzl, Ma¬ 
rianka Huber with that remnant of kindliness at a pain¬ 
ful moment which Nepomuck, the soldier valet, had 
bestowed on her the day he came with flowers for 
Agnes, and, later, for herself. 

In the cemetery was a vast and surging living popu¬ 
lation among the dead. Women came to weep over 
their sons and daughters, parents and the like. . . The 
grave-diggers stood in earth to their hips, digging with 
long-handled shovels, the earth smelt damp, sweet, it 
carried a breath of advancing cold in its grip, odour- 
ous with the mildew of centuries past—centuries to 
come...still the same, sweet Mother Earth. . . . 

Two of the grave-diggers passed Agnes and Ma- 


236 


Merry-Go-R ound 


rianka as they walked between and around the rows, 
laying the offerings of their devout hearts over the 
simple crosses. One of these was a hunchback, shorter 
than the other, his good face streaked with dirt and 
honest eyes gazing upon the ground, clear, open-coun¬ 
tenanced. She looked closely at his face. 

“Isn’t that Bartholomew?” she said very suddenly to 
Marianka, “I am sure that is Bartholomew...look, he 
has gotten thin and his walk is the same—he limps. . 

Sure enough. It was Bartholomew. 

“Ooh, Bartholomew,” she cried, “come here, it is 
I—it is Agnes.... What are you doing?” He had his 
shovel over his shoulder. . . 

Marianka was plucking weeds from a mound of the 
moist earth and she turned her head quickly enough to 
see the hunchback hesitate, then look with his clear, 
gray eyes at the girl before him, and she rose to her 
feet. 

Agnes could not resist the impulse, in her joy, to kiss 
him, and she threw her arms around his neck with the 
soiled shirt collar standing half about his red 
throat. . . . 

“Ah, Bartholomew, it’s good to see you again! what 
are you doin’? where have you been?” . . . 

He was somewhat embarrassed— 

“I? I told you—what was I good for? nothin’. No¬ 
body wanted me, everybody was taken to war—only 
not me. All right, I says, I’ll go to the bureau an’ find 
out... Pfui — ” he spat, “they set me at grave diggin’— 
one has to eat! I’m eatin’ an’ the dead come in better 
and better every day....” 

He placed his dirty, hard finger-tip on the spot where 
her lips had been on his cheek... He didn’t know 
whether he would not wipe off the great surprise in 
this way, but it felt like a decoration...he wanted to feel 
it, and stroked the skin and examined his index finger 
minutely after each touch. This he did on the sly. 



All Souls’ Day 


237 


“You’re—you’re diggin’ graves?” Agnes was disa¬ 
greeably touched by the idea,—“you see, Marianka, he 
had to eat,” she apologised for Bartholomew, “he was 
starvin’...” 

“Well, somebody has to do it,” he exclaimed with 
passion: “see here, here!” he showed her his calloused 
hands, his eyes began to glint unnaturally, “it’s a sure 
thing the brain gets like the hands...I’m hard an’ 
coarse...it don’t make no diff’rence to me. It’s all in a 
day’s work, y’ see...” 

“Ooh, Bartholomew,” was all she could say. 

“An’what does anybody care? nothin’. I’m a work¬ 
man.” 

“What happened to little Boniface?” 

“I sold ’im to a clinic. I don’t have food enough for 
myself,” he said doggedly. 

“He’s dead?” 

“Cut up!” 

She shivered all over. 

“What are you doin’?” 

“I’m workin’ with Mrs. Huber in a factory. We’re 
makin’ artificial limbs—legs an’ arms—an’ I tell you, 
business is boomin’ an’ they’re going to enlarge the 
place.” 

Bartholomew was pleased— 

“Yep, my business is pretty good too, I can tell you 
that...I haven’t had a day off for a long time.”. . . 

“Well, when you do get one off, when you do, you’ll 
come an’ see us... won’t you?” 

“Sure I will...what’s the address?” 

She gave it to him on a little slip of paper.... 

“Come soon.” 

“Yes.” . . . 

He put the address into his pocket and stood a 
moment, fingering another piece of paper inside, rec¬ 
tangular, numbered—a new lottery ticket. . . 

“I say,” he commenced, “do you know that I had 


238 


Merry-Go-R ourtd 


a dream, thirteen was a mountain, twenty-three was a 
tree at the top, thirty-one was a bird in the tree, a 
black bird, raven-” 

But he got no further. An overseer came just at 
that moment and laid his hand on his sleeve. There 
was a half-opened grave two rows away and he was 
required to dig it with the man already inside, shovel¬ 
ing the soil out of the rut, throwing it over his head, 
whistling, sending out tunes and the spadefulls of 
black loam all at one and the same time. 

“See here, I have to go...” 

“...And are you still so foolish,” said Agnes, “that 
you have to gamble?...it is a waste of money...” 

“It is not! I will win, see if I don’t...the drawin’ 
comes next-” 

His voice trailed off behind his body as he went with 
the cemetery overseer to the pit... Agnes followed 
them leisurely with Marianka, saw Bartholomew from 
a distance lower his crooked spine and legs into the 
yawning hollow from whence his head and shoulders 
protruded, looking gruesome and uncomfortable. She 
saw the dirt fly with the rhythm of the whistler and 
every now and then the shovels hit something heavy and 
metallic and rocks and scraps of metal were cast 
up. . . 

Bartholomew laboured this way from morning to 
night. Events of the kingdom could surge about his 
ears, thrones could totter, armies fall,—it was all one 
and the same thing... And when his emperor, Franz- 
Josef I, died, nineteen days later, after a reign of nearly 
sixty-eight years, although the body of the exalted ruler 
lay in stately grandeur in the Hofburg Chapel of his 
Vienna palace, with guards of honour on four sides, 
wax candles dripping to light his soul to heaven, 
coronets at feet and crowns at the head, velvets and 
ermines over his bier,—the former Ausrufer, still send¬ 
ing the earth in volcanoes erupting out from the lusti- 




All Souls’ Day 


239 


ness of his shovel, called from his pits as if he stood 
on the Prater: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, walk right in...the greatest 
performance begins just now. Please don’t push, there 
is a place for everyone!” 


XXX 


REGARDING THE PROGRESS OF A FALLING BODY 

To have started out with the idea of seeing the world 
from a romantic standpoint and to end by confinement 
in a convent—this was the last thing to the taste of such 
a Viennese born and bred as Gisella von Steinbrueck! 
It was distinctly naive. It would have caused her to 
laugh and rail at fate if she had been anything but a 
Viennese. But a Viennese has a natural haughty pose 
that is nonchalant, not arrogant, that is pride which 
cannot be shaken by misfortune...that is never as¬ 
tounded, rebellious, crushed by reverses...which dares 
to do any act acceptable at the moment without regard 
for consequences...which has an ease of conscience that 
is only stifled when the time of life draws to a close and 
the blanket is pulled over the head... Then all goes 
out, like breath on a candle, without comment, ques¬ 
tion or observation, without flicker,—snuffed in a 
moment! 

Gisella’s beauty and animated manner had always 
strewn the atmosphere of life around as if 
she were the dawn coming to awaken tardy 
sleepers.... 

These did not forsake her now. 

She was in a convent—the Convento della Suore di 
Carita, which is a day and a night from Venice; there 
were three or four middle-aged Austrian women in the 
same institution, also two Germans, all of good sta¬ 
tion, not exalted, and all middle-class in looks.... She 
was the only distinguished guest and life was very rou¬ 
tine. Caserta is Neapolitan. A camp for the intern¬ 
ment of prisoners of war is in the same location. Also 
a hospital for the care of enemy wounded, and soldiers 

240 


Regarding the Progress of a Falling Body 241 

pass daily in the little squares of the town. So, at least, 
it was in 1915. 

If she had been picked up—an Austrian—on the 
streets of Naples, her rank unknown, her clothing 
shabby, purse empty, she would have been allocated to 
this camp, scrubbed floors or mended or darned, what¬ 
ever was demanded of her, and thus four years would 
have gone over among the families and personnel of 
those enemies of the Entente as were brought in from 
all directions on the declaration of war in Italy, May 
23rd, 1915.... This was the “national event.” Instead 
of a war alongside of the central empires, the Floren¬ 
tine state had turned traitor to her alliance, much as 
Jock Steers had done in parting ruthlessly from his 
countess and as she was forced to do in time to any 
principles that remained in her character after Venice 
had subtracted the first and the second of her grand 
passions. . . 

That she was of noble descent and highly connected 
in Venice to the della Grazias, entitled her to the pro¬ 
tection of the enemy country she was in. She was dis¬ 
tinguished, privileged, above the rabble, could not be 
confined with it. . . But this segregation would have 
been irksome had it been in Gisella’s nature to find 
anything irksome that her personal charms, her beauty 
and dashing manner could overcome. 

At the head of the internment camp in Caserta was 
a major of infantry, suffering from muscular rheu¬ 
matism, incapacitated for active service since the Tripo¬ 
litan war, w T hen he led a brigade against Turkey, in 
1911, and was wounded and had never fully re¬ 
covered. . . 

Paolo Guasti, ardent, though middle-aged—he was 
probably fifty years—iron-haired and iron-willed, a 
capable and an amorous man, somewhat paunchy but 
still handsome, came as often as twice a month to in¬ 
spect the conditions of the convent. He was shown 


242 


Merry-Go-Round 


through the cells by the Mother Superior. He in¬ 
spected the kitchen and even sampled the food... Then 
he had a talk with her, checked up the prisoners—the 
noble prisoners which are in every country and have to 
be attended to with extra benefits and care, left his com¬ 
mands, gave Suore Maddalena di Gesu 1 an order for 
the upkeep, which was an added item to the regular ex¬ 
penses, and went on his way, back to the internment 
camp where his twenty troopers took care of four or 
five hundred mediocre and assembled men and women, 
or to the hospital, just established to care for future 
wounded enemies, all under his supervision, his hand, 
his absolute and complete rule. Only he had to make 
his reports to the higher authorities, but these were in 
Rome. . . 

Major Guasti had that Italian spirit which never 
seems to die in the aged roue of the Latin nature—love 
of a pretty and engaging woman. 

Gisella saw him at the same moment he saw her and 
her piquancy, which no experience seemed to have 
dampened, won his admiration at once. 

“Who is this woman?” he asked the Superior. 

“A Viennese—” 

“But, yes, I could see that!” 

“She is the Komtessa Gisella di Steinbrueck.” 

“Steinbrueck?” he wrinkled his forehead beneath his 
upstanding white-black hair. He bit his long black 
moustache. “What is her position?” 

“I think, excellency, you would be interested in 
knowing—she is the daughter of the minister of war.” 

“Aah!” 

“The Duca della Grazia is her kinsman.” 

“Aah.” 

“She was taken from the Palazzo della Grazia and 
arrived only four days ago.” . . . 


1 Sister Magdalen of Jesus, the superior. 



Regarding the Progress of a Falling Body 243 

“Aah.” 

Well, he would interrogate this komtessa. . . 

But Gisella, who knew everything, spoke of nothing! 
State secrets of her country she never revealed— they 
were secrets. Her own life—that was an open book. 
Contempt for the restrictions imposed by the convent— 
she was, however, a strict observer of all the rituals of 
her church—led her to give him, with especial empha¬ 
sis, the full history of her adventures. . . 

She was candid to the point of indelicacy. This 
stimulated his regard. Paolo Guasti was an ordinary 
soldier, raised through his service to the rank of a com¬ 
mander. He had a longing to seduce a countess. One 
excuse after another offered itself to him, he made up 
his mind to arrange the little details so that they could 
enjoy their society apart from an audience, and he made 
her a proposition. . . 

“You naturally find this convent life very—er, 
regular?” 

At once she saw the point. 

“Now, I have an idea. We are beginning to re¬ 
ceive Austrian wounded from the front. We have a 
hospital, as you know, or do not, madame, in Caserta. 
It is my hospital, that is, I am the commanding officer 
of this district of internment...” Well, she understood. 
“Now, madame, it is our desire to—to make every¬ 
one as comfortable as possible—under the restrictions 
of war. . . I am happy to say there is nothing vicious 
or venomous in the Neapolitan character. We have 
enemies and destroy them, but when the Austrian sol¬ 
diers come to us with legs and arms blown off and they 
lay in our hospitals, they are no longer enemies at the 
point of a rifle, they are wounded men. . .” 

She shot him a look under her lowered lashes. 

Tutte le dolcesse del amore! 

All the delights of love. 

The arrangement was perfect and the delighted 



244- 


Merry-Go-Round 


major of infantry appointed the Austrian countess to 
the position of hospital superior... She was to nurse 
the sick. 

Of this Gisella knew nothing—not one thing... But 
she managed her visits so that her major was always 
able to make an assignation with her; she also was ap¬ 
pointed to teach his young daughter German and 
French in his home. But the little signorina never 
learned one word! Gisella came and went from the 
convent as she pleased and became quite as independent 
as an Austrian subject could under the rigours of war. 
Had it been possible for the commandant to elope with 
her, he undoubtedly would have run off to Capri or 
Monte Carlo or some such resort. 

But he could not. He did not compromise himself 
either but managed everything so well that this clan¬ 
destine life continued twelve months without a single 
disappointment or a discovery. The old major thought 
his countess was madly in love with him when she was 
only playing with him as a terrier does with a rat, or a 
fisherman with a salmon . . . 

She needed this freedom, but he— 

“I knew from the very first moment you were in 
love with me!” he declared and fell in love with his 
own romancing. 

And so it might have gone on for two years more, 
or the duration of the war. The sick came and were 
brought into the hospital on stretchers, where Gisella 
had them docketed, feeling strongly for them all the 
time because they were Austrians, and she gave them 
the best of care, having more than twenty country¬ 
women up from the detention camp, but she never 
nursed any herself... Then they were discharged as 
cured and made prisoners of war. 

She had never been to the detention camp. 

One day the order was reversed and a man was 
brought in from the camp to undergo hospital treat- 


Regarding the Progress of a Falling Body 245 

ment. He was stricken with a fever—the first of the 
malaria patients, had come in from the island of Capri, 
was not an officer or a soldier—had never had a uni¬ 
form on his back, to be quite exact. 

This young man had a very strange history, although 
it was very simple. He came from the family of the 
Grimms in lower Austria. His estates were the larg¬ 
est there. He had horses, rode from day to day, 
traveled in foreign countries, never read a book and 
never did an hour’s service under the emperor’s flag. . . 
In fact, he was taken in as a spy, when the very closest 
connection he had ever had with governmental ma¬ 
chinery was the appearance at court of the young 
fellow on gala occasions when he danced with every 
archduchess and called them afterwards by their first 
names. 

Baron von Grimm bore the name of Gustav. His 
father was Kriegsrath, or a member of the war minis¬ 
try of His Majesty under von Steinbrueck. But this 
diplomacy and statesmanship did not appeal to Gustav 
von Grimm nor did a military career, as he had all the 
horseback riding he wanted, so he merely gave the 
regimental examiners one word in their ears and they 
excused him as physically unfit. . . It is possible to do 
this if you have a sphere in life. 

Baron von Grimm’s sphere was his father’s influence. 

“Gustav, you should serve...” 

“I don’t want to serve.” 

“You don’t have to serve!” 

That excused him. His father set the example. . . 

After spending his time in Paris, London and other 
capitals of the world, leading a very gay life, Baron 
von Grimm went to Capri, where he enjoyed the ultra- 
marine shades of the beautiful Mediterranean at his 
feet, the equally free sky overhead, the hills, the poetry 
of the location of which he knew something, and had in 
his company a little actress from Bukharest, whom he 



246 


Merry-Go-Round 


supported very liberally. . . The war found him 
here, Capri was a spies’ nest. He did not go into a 
fort. He was a non-combatant. So they sent him to 
Caserta, to the internment barracks. 

And here he would have remained except that ma¬ 
laria was introduced and he fell a victim, as he was 
not in a very good state of health. He had lived too 
high. 

He was so wasted that Gisella, although she knew 
him well from Vienna, did not recognize him for over 
one month. 

Then, one day, he was able to sit up, she came into 
the room, a mutual look of recognition passed between 
them! 

“IVelche Herzensfreude!” he cried out to her, and 
ironically greeted her further, as she was as vivacious 
as ever and yet had been caught by the toils of war the 
same as he and had her wings clipped, so to speak— 
“Ah, Euer Gnaden, kiisse die Hand! Wie kommen Sie 
in Gefangenschaft?! )n 

She told him the whole story. 

“So—ah—so... and this major of cantonments, do 
you care for him?” 

“No.” 

“Ha—ha.” . . . 

It was like her own Vienna—this meeting. Only 
two Austrians could talk together the way they 
talked—understanding everything, the lift of the eye¬ 
brow, the shrug of the shoulder, the smile on the edge 
of the lip. . . 

“Der nimmt Dich fur baare Miinze, ,>2 commented 
the Herr Baron jocosely, “ha-ha-ha, from the first 
moment he ‘knew’ you were in love with him! That is 

1 “What heart's delight! (to see you.) .... Ah, lovely lady, I kiss 
your hand! How does it happen you are a prisoner?” 

2 “He takes you for real money,” the genuine article. 



Regarding the Progress of a Falling Body 


247 


the Italian—he is always so sure of himself—irresisti¬ 
ble ! impossible not to love him, und so weiter. . 

He doctored for another month. At the end of that 
time she fell from grace with him. . . This slip might 
have been gotten over as easily as any other, because 
they deceived the major, Paolo Guasti, so perfectly; 
but she was herself made ill, was forced to confess 
everything, even to the loathesome pass to which the 
Austrian’s love had brought her; and so, with this 
kindness from an enemy and this malevolence from a 
countryman, she went into a contagious ward, aban¬ 
doned, sick, utterly despised and with no prospect of 
getting out for a whole year. . . Blood diseases are 
as hard to lose as they are easy to contract. One 
moment the damage is done. Hours, days, months and 
years of torture follow. . . Gisella went into a sec¬ 
tion of the civil hospital. Ospedale dei Pelligrini, it is 
called. 

In the meantime the war went on. Events followed 
rapidly. Thousands of Austrian prisoners were taken. 
The Piave and the Tagliamento became succeeding 
boundaries on Italy’s north and the fleeing of Italian in¬ 
fantrymen became a thing of history as their brave re¬ 
covery under cavalry leadership succeeded. . . 

In Viterbo, which is near Rome, was another intern¬ 
ment camp, a day away from Caserta, larger, more 
general, including all of six hundred Austrians and 
Germans, with their families, women, children, housed 
in entrenched barracks, a camp with barbed-wire fenc¬ 
ing completely around it, and thirty guards on duty at 
alternating watches. . . 

Twelve months of the war remained. 

Like a stone falling from a tower, Gisella’s descent 
was rapid. The stone drops faster every moment. It 
is a geometric conclusion that the farther it falls, the 
swifter, owing to the added strength of the object each 
foot above the last. . . Speed accelerates when 



248 


Merry-Go-Round 


gravity pulls. Gisella started her descent from the 
skirt of Franz-Josef’s court—the most autocratic and 
haughty of royalties. When she fell with Jock Steers 
she rode down the Semmering Pass. . . With her own 
cousin, she was reprehensible. He had the ear-marks 
of relationship—decency... Major Guasti she scan¬ 
dalized. Baron von Grimm implanted, what so far 
she had escaped, irrevocable traces of his debauchery. 
She was soiled. . . 

What further ignobility should follow? 

She had only to come into an internment camp, the 
barbed-wire enclosures of Viterbo this time, and the 
path led swifter than an eagle’s flight from the crags 
to the ditch, the valley below, the narrow depths full of 
shadows that are found in great mountain ranges and 
into which the unwitting mountain climbers of the 
Swiss Alps sometimes plunge, accelerating like a stone, 
hurtling faster and faster with each foot of their 
crashing fall! Nothing can stop them. They land at 
the bottom. . . . 

She could not stop herself. Her face was pale, as 
colorless now as the hair which had once been Gisella’s 
greatest attraction. It had been golden blond, ar¬ 
ranged like a halo, pompadoured, regal... Now it was 
ash-blond, a color blended of gold and silver, badly 
burnished, or tarnished and without a glint, the bril¬ 
liancy was gone. Her eyes were heavy. She never 
smiled. She had a haunted look. Some desire strained 
in her eyes. . . She was addicted to morphine and took 
her dose as regularly as the doctors gave her relief 
with this drug... She had learned to use it in her agony 
after the knowledge of her infection. And she sprayed 
her throat regularly, came into Viterbo a cured woman, 
—but the stone was dropping, foot by foot, accelerat¬ 
ing, swiftly going toward the shadows of the val¬ 
ley. . . . 

Gisella’s clothing was pathetic. She could not hope 


Regarding the Progress of a Falling Body 249 

to attract the commandant. She did not attempt to 
publish her rank. The commandant, if he knew it, 
made no comment. She did not look the part. . . She 
was put to the most menial labour. This work, to which 
she was not accustomed, proved very hard; if she could 
have escaped it, she would have. She would have done 
anything to get off her knees, leave the floors muddy 
and unwashed, the waste water for someone else to 
carry... They all did it, the camp was large, they all 
had to take a turn.... 

Outside of the barracks were small camps, a house, 
or, sometimes, a tent. In one of these houses fourteen 
Austrian officers were lodged under a heavy guard. 
The guard was bribed to introduce some pleasure into 
this closed den, this enclosure where men were rest¬ 
less, confined, marched out in file, according to rank, 
only once in the open air every day, and where their 
appetites had plenty of time to grow out of bounds, to 
become ravenous. 

They demanded of the guard— 

“Here are ten lire, you scamp, go and get some¬ 
body!” 

“Who do you want?” said the guard, properly mys¬ 
tified by the bribe. 

“Women!” 

“A woman?” 

“Women!” . . . 

“You want-” 

“Get out!” they roared at him: “here are ten more 
lire —get out!” 

And he backed out only long enough to pass a word 
to his corporal, who was willing to take a bribe, and 
the corporal to the sergeant. 

That is as far as it went. The women were intro¬ 
duced. Gisella was approached on her knees as she lay 
on the floor, scrubbing-brush in hand, invited to get off 
of them and to follow the sergeant without scruple. 



250 


Merry-Go-Round 


Life commenced to look bearable again. . . 

Two women in the company of fourteen officers! 

******** 

...In time she was no longer with officers; she passed 
among the Italian soldiers. . . 

Now, men who could go outside of the camp for 
their pleasures should have been the last temptation 
as their actions were so irregular. . . 

They were the very last. 

Twelve months passed and she was by this time 
reduced to the most vile ill-health. She was rancid— 
like a little rotten apple! Gisella von Steinbrueck... 
the accelerating stone...dropping like a flambeau and 
scattering ashes as she fell!. 

The soldiers made a concubine of her, they laughed 
and jeered. Nothing is quite so heartless as soldiers 
when their country is at war and they have lost their 
intelligence and are acting like a machine. What one 
does, the others follow. Nothing is done singly, all in 
common. . . . 

“Here, wench, I’ll take a walk with you...you are my 
prisoner!” 

He takes her out in the bushes. 

“Here, drab, where have you been?” 

He has a tent by the barbed-wire, near the edge of 
the camp, where four or five troopers are laying to¬ 
gether.... 

“Here, you dirt—you filth L.come here, go there.” 

Descending lower and lower...the stone hits the val¬ 
ley at last and would rebound, the drop is so fright¬ 
ful,—but there is mud in the valley bottom, so it sinks 
from the fall feet-deep into the slimy black ooze! . . . 




XXXI 


DRAGOONS ! 

Belgrade was the objective of the first punitive ex¬ 
pedition going out of Vienna. 

On July 27th, in 1914, directly after the declaration 
of war against Serbia, or coincidental with it, the Sixth 
Dragoons were mobilized. On the 31st they were on 
the train, proceeding south and then east, eager to enter 
King Peter’s domain and make a fine carousal out of 
the whole invasion by drinking all the champagne in 
the capital city! 

This is the sport of officers of the dragoons. The 
men have less extravagant tastes, but take their cheap 
wine or beer with the same gusto. . . 

The hour was midnight. Franzl, after the parade 
of his Escadrone through the Mariahilferstrasse and 
down the Ringstrasse, went into a second-class coach 
where his officers sat, making themselves as comfort¬ 
able as possible, buttoned in their tight blue coats, with 
boots on their feet reaching to their short red trousers 
and with swords across their laps. This uniform was 
used by the cavalry through the early engagements of 
the war and was very conspicuous. The infantry wore 
field gray. But the infantry was not along with them. 
They were the advance guard, who sometimes acted as 
a rear guard on retreats, when the advance guard of the 
enemy, also a cavalry unit, rode forward, skirmishing 
with them in a galloping fight. . . 

Franzl was the commanding officer of the train, 
which included only the Fourth Escadrone. Altogether 
six of these companies formed the Divisions Caval - 
lerie, what is equal to a regiment, or about nine hun¬ 
dred swords. The infantry division consisted of foot 

251 


252 


Merry-Go-Round 


regiments, each supported by its cavalry Escadrone, 
and the whole system was moved toward Serbia, in¬ 
tending to scatter in various units to the north and west, 
in order to proceed south and east. This way Serbia 
would be over-run, the capital taken, the state pun¬ 
ished. . . 

But when Franzl and his officers and men, who were 
quartered in cattle cars like their horses, reached 
Szekesfehervar, several hours later, after setting off in 
the darkest part of the night in order to escape obser¬ 
vation, a necessary war precaution, the order was en¬ 
tirely reversed. 

Russia had been treated to a declaration of war by 
Germany, France followed, Austria was pushed further 
into a crisis by her foreign minister and was ready to 
attack Russia,—so the objective of the Sixth Dragoons 
became Lemberg instead of Belgrade. This city is in 
Galicia, which is Poland, but was, before the division 
of empires, a part of northern Austria. . . . 

The train went to Budapest on the Danube, De- 
breczin, and over the Carpathian Mountains into Lem¬ 
berg. Here the troops dismounted. It was August 
8th. They went into temporary empty barracks—the 
Kaiser Franz-Josef Cavallerie Kaserne.... And now 
the next step was to ride to Zolkoview, where the 
balance of the division was waiting and a sortie was 
made to the north. 

War had started. Thousands of men were moving 
in all directions. The Russians, sending out cavalry 
regiments, engaged the Austrians in a small town in a 
plain, surrounded by little rolling hills, covered with 
scrubby bushes and miniature woods—the town Vladi¬ 
mir Wolinsky, which proved to be the baptism of fire 
for a new generation of soldiers, a whole crop, new¬ 
born to undertake war, raised to their twentieth and 
thirtieth years with manoeuvers every other day of the 
week, as it were, and only now, owing to the scratch 


Dragoons 


253 


of the pen on an article of diplomacy, launched upon 
battlefields, surrounding hills, galloping with their 
rifles at their shoulders and sniping at every living 
object over the whole plain!. 

This engagement at Vladimir Wolinsky belonged to 
cavalry only. It is not historic. It has no scope, a 
very small mortality, would scarcely, in fact, be re¬ 
membered did it not mark the early enthusiasm of every 
one of the troops. Franzl felt the exaltation of the 
moment. He stood beside his horse on a small hill, 
with trees about him, sheltered; but he disdained these 
trees, he felt too safe and not heroic, so he went to the 
very edge of the woods and exposed himself. He 
thought of the glories of this heroism...he was expos¬ 
ing himself for Austria, his life for his country. It was 
like martyrdom! it was wonderful! He was thrilled 
all over. Fight and die...fight and die! He felt exactly 
like shouting at the enemy, daring him to shoot him! 

But all at once a singing noise, like the snap of a 
metallic wire, fled past his ears... He was astonished. 
It was the fire of the enemy! He was enthralled... 
then he stepped back into the woods. 

Months later, when he was in a hospital, himself at 
the point of death, and dying and crying men all around 
him, he thought of this childish attitude, the attitude 
of every one of the officers and the men who were 
stimulated by patriotic motives; then his throat con¬ 
tracted, he did not know whether to laugh or cry. In 
those early days he was so bombastic, so full of enthu¬ 
siastic bravado. 

His cavalry retreated. This was merely a sortie and 
the Russians massed at the west of the Ukraine in 
hordes during the early days of combat. Nothing was 
lost...a line is always advanced before it is withdrawn 
to a discreet distance and the trenches were opened to 
permit stale-mating, or the cessation of hostilities, over 
the winter. . . War does not cease in winter, it merely 



254 


Merry-Go-Round 


relaxes to the point of mutual sufferance. Both sides 
feel the discomforts of ice, snow, water in the 
trenches; humanity is that way, it buries itself until 
spring.... Wars are initiated in the summer time, 
then the crops are harvested... man wants to camp in 
the open and wander, and is brave because the world 
looks so bright. . . When it is cold and gloomy, 
his assurance is not so great. Winter is fearsome, 
cruel... man has for centuries dreaded the cold por¬ 
tion of the year. . . . 

When the battle of Rawaruska took place in Sep¬ 
tember, both infantry and cavalry engaged. The cav¬ 
alry covered the retreat of the army again, which con¬ 
tinued almost to Krakow before the lines were formed, 
October and November came, and the Russians were 
entrenched in the province of Lublin, east of the Aus¬ 
trians, whose works extended north to Lodz in a 
straight line for about a hundred miles. . . 

War is monotonous. The combatant who can show 
the greatest patience usually wins. Modern practice of 
arms consists of wearing down the enemy, not assault¬ 
ing him...and until the following May, the Sixth Dra¬ 
goons, their horses quartered in a small town to the 
rear, where they had better treatment than their riders, 
remained in the dugouts, well built and fortified, over 
the Christmas month, January, February, March and 
April, of 1915, succeeding. . . . 

At this time their patience grew out of bounds, they 
were at the point, with the rest of the army, when 
bravado asserts itself under the warm spring sun, 
peril is forgotten with the winter...an advance was 
ordered, to drive the Russians back. The march com¬ 
menced along the left bank of the Vistula to Warsaw, 
toward the north, which capitulated months later, in 
August. 

This retreat is famous. It dwarfs the retreat of Na¬ 
poleon from Moscow, except the suffering of the Rus- 


Dragoons 


255 


sians was less than the French; they withdrew in wild 
disorder, without patriotism, leaving artillery, supplies, 
surrendering themselves,—a disinterested and docile 
mob, often more anxious to be captured and sent into 
prison camps, where at least a routine would take up 
the balance of the war period for them, than to es¬ 
cape. . . Whenever the officers of a regiment fell, the 
entire regiment gave itself up—sending over word with 
a flag of truce, laying down its rifles, big, strong peas¬ 
ants, sent into the slaughter without will of their own, 
merely to fire and fall. . . . 

Franzl took over four thousand of these peasants in 
one afternoon, five at a time, marching into his camp, 
where he checked them off and sent them to the 
rear. . . The problem of caring for them became irk¬ 
some. The Russian retreat continued eastward, day 
by day. Soon Galicia was liberated. 

By fall the new line extended to Tilsit, through 
the Rokitno Swamps in Grodno Minsk, to Czerno- 
witz. . . The Sixth Dragoons were in the swamp, a 
muddy waste-land without cities or townships, un¬ 
healthy, rained over; the water stood in puddles, the 
trenches were filled, filth swam in the declivities.... 

In this discomfort they remained for a year and a 
half. Between the lines was a single fresh water 
well. . . Over this there was fraternisation, the troops 
of both sides taking their turns at filling their canteens, 
and when the rain made the shallow trenches impos¬ 
sible to live in, they sat on the top, exchanging shouts 
but never shots, except when a general came through 
and then the temporary battle was over in a couple of 
hours, staged for his benefit, and without a death on 
either side if it could be helped.... 

This was not war. But three years had passed. No 
end was in sight. The western theatre was very heavily 
engaged, whether one alliance fell or the other de¬ 
pended on the western theatre. Still, reinforcements 


256 


Merry-Go-Round 


came in to the enemy, and the Sixth Dragoons com¬ 
menced a small retreat in July and August, falling back 
for seventy-five miles. , . 

As usual, the infantry went first. Heavy artillery 
bombarded from both sides. A flare of shells rained 
over the long distance, field pieces exchanged bursting 
shrapnel and the Russian ten-centimeter rifle, a very 
accurate gun, fell among the Austrians, spreading dead 
and dying in the swamps! 

What had been an orderly retreat was changed to 
chaos. All at once the water was slashed by running 
feet...heavy artillery lumbered along, drivers cursed 
horses on the field, whose legs fell into sump holes.... 
rifle shots sent sprays of water up in the air!....on all 
sides men cursed and ran, firing over their shoulders 

at semi-visible enemies. The dragoons clattered 

after, holding back the advancers until night closed 
down on the scene!.... 

With this respite two things were discovered. These 
were unimportant except in as far as the Fourth Esca- 
drone was concerned. And to the Fourth Escadrone 
only one was of relative importance. The bombard¬ 
ment continued through the night. The retreat be¬ 
came more orderly, it slowed up, the sprays of water 
shot more seldom up in the air and cries and groans 
were heard all over the swampy land. . . 

Among the wounded lay Franzl. This was of im¬ 
portance to the Escadrone. Its commander was in¬ 
jured, how seriously nobody knew.... He lay all alone 
on his part of the field, except for two other dragoons, 
one dead, the other pierced through the arm, slowly 
bleeding and with his thick, hunchy peasant’s nose 
turned straight down in the earth, sucking up the mud 
and filth as he tried to breathe! 

This man was Nepomuck. His helmet had rolled 
off his head. His rifle was flung over his shoulder, 
some yards away, as he had fallen riding at full speed 




Dragoons 


257 


to keep up with Franzl, who zigzagged, shooting back¬ 
ward to engage as many of the Russian riflemen as he 
could. . . . 

Nepomuck lay perfectly still. He waited until the 
dragoons had passed over, barely missing his body 
and crashing on. . . His arm was numb. His brain 
was also numb. He tried to think but found that the 
mud and water, stopping up his nose, also got in his 
head; he was in danger of drowning, and as soon as 
nature demanded, rolled over on his side, spat out into 
the sump hole and coughed and rasped for a full half 
hour. . . In the night the shots fell off more and 
more, the retreat ended, star shells lit up the terrain 
from both sides, floating overhead.... a ghastly scene 
was uncovered!. . . And, as he lay on his side, he 
saw his commander, not twelve feet away, also flat on 
the ground, his head moving slowly back and forth, 
raising from his shoulders and falling again, as if he 
were suffering the greatest pain! 

Nepomuck crawled toward his master. He was a 
coward. Now he forgot himself. It sometimes takes 
a battlefield to bring out the character of a man, es¬ 
pecially if he feels he is a coward. . . He crawled on 
one arm and his knees, dragging after him his useless 
arm which hung like a flail without life, trailing in the 
mud. . . When he reached Franzl’s side he saw that 
he was in mortal agony, taking off his belt, clinching 
his teeth and with a glaze over his eyes. . . . 

But presently the eyes cleared. He was recognized! 
Franzl’s wound was in the thigh, very deep and open, 
allowing the blood to run out in a stream... With his 
good arm Nepomuck reached for the belt to make a 

tourniquet above the wound.but the belt would not 

come, his master’s hand held it fast! And he moved 
his head from side to side, struggling to keep his con¬ 
sciousness, opening wide his eyes and shutting them; 
he finally shook off his fast settling lethargy and 



258 


Merry-Go-Round 


reached for his servant’s arm. There, lying in the pool 
of his own blood and the morass of the battle, Franzl 
fastened the belt around the arm, pulling it tight, and 
tighter...tighter...tighter. . . Then he fainted. 

Nepomuck did not stir until the wound was bound. 
Then he unfastened his own belt with one hand, helped 
himself with his teeth and wound it around his mas¬ 
ter’s leg. . . 

They lay there for further hours. Yes, days passed, 
months, years!... no, it was only two hours. By this 
time the dragoons, reconnoitering from their positions 
in the rear of the infantry, swept over the field, the 
living were segregated stealthily from the dead; Nepo¬ 
muck was picked up, wide-eyed, wide-awake, looking 
up at the moon that formed a little crescent overhead, 
and swung back and forth as he watched it,—and was 
straightened up on his feet. 

There he tried to stand but toppled over, was 
gathered up and helped to remain upright again. . . 
An army doctor was on his knees beside Franzl. He 
watched him, with two dragoons, examine the binding 
he had made. . . 

“Too late,” he heard the doctor whisper... “it is too 
late. He might have been saved if I had gotten him 
right away. . .” 

Dead! Franzl—his master—the Count von Ho- 
henegg dead! 

Nepomuck, with his knees buckling underneath 
him, heard the water rushing in his ears as they carried 
him off the field, and left that stark, staring, white face 
of his master pasty under the stars. . . . 


XXXII 


THE IRON HAND 

When the war was over, in Vienna, and, in fact, all 
during the last years, one of the saddest sights was the 
horde of beggars in uniform, who solicited bread in the 
streets. The church of St. Stephen was a favourite 
place for these military wounded who were with¬ 
out arms or legs, sometimes one of each, blind, 
incapacitated for any labour and yet had life 
in their bodies and required to fill the stomachs to 
sustain this life or to die of starvation and to lie in the 
gutters. . . . 

Stephansdom was chosen as the principal place to 
solicit alms, not because the people that passed in and 
out were any richer than anywhere else or could give 
bigger fees, but because a worshipper’s heart is softer, 
it has been opened at the foot of Christ and the moment 
is opportune to open the purse at the same time and 
help some fellow mortal out of trouble. 

On the 11th of November, when earth’s rivers again 
ran silver instead of red, with the stream of all na¬ 
tions’ blood, two beggars stood, one on each side of the 
portal of St. Stephen’s. They were of medium height 
and had on military coats, their trousers were badly 
worn and of dark stuff, and the leg of one of these 
trousers belonging to the older man was hitched up and 
fastened above the knee, showing plainly that he had 
sacrificed a leg in the war. The other had his mili¬ 
tary cap at the end of a hook, which was in place of 
his right hand. This hook, made of metal, connected 
with a hinged piece continuing up the arm to the 
shoulder. He extended this iron hook, holding his 
cap, to the passersby, who dropped a coin whenever 

259 


260 


Merry-Go-Round 


possible into it, sometimes looking into his face and 
sometimes at the silver medal that was fastened on his 
breast. 

The tolling of the great bell in the tower had 
brought together a large congregation on this occasion, 
because Kaiser Karl Franz-Josef had just abdicated his 
throne. This meant that an armistice was declared. 
The nations of the earth were suing for peace. The 
slaughter was at an end. Everybody could breathe 
with relief. The crisis was over. The church filled 
with women who were dressed in black, as almost every¬ 
one had lost a dear relative or a close friend. But such 
is the cost of war. . . . 

When the church was full, aisles packed, pews over¬ 
flowing, the services commenced. Cripples also entered 
the sanctuary. All raised their eyes. The monstrance 
was exposed for the benediction and the organ chanted 
“Silent Night....Holy Night...” 

This beautiful melody passed beyond the portals, it 
touched the ears of the beggars outside. They looked 
at one another. 

“Well, the war is over,” said the man without a leg. 
“We are beggars now, the whole nation. I suppose 
they will strip us of the last cent, and for what? Why 
did I lose my leg? What is the use? What good have 
I done?... See, my brother, you lost your arm. Now 
you have an iron one. Much good may it do you...we 
are all starving...” 

He said this bitterly and interposed his crutches be¬ 
fore the door as the first of the congregation came out 
from inside: 

“For God’s sake, one penny! Didn’t I fight for you 
and lose my leg in the war?” He shouted this as two 
women in black gowns passed out. 

“So the emperor has run away,” he turned again to 
the man with the iron hand. “Gone to Switzerland, 
they say. There he will live in luxury and we will live 


The Iron Hand 


261 


in the streets. . Ah, that’s what we get for fighting 
this damnable war! . . 

The other man did not reply. He thought he was 
standing before a social-democrat—one of those men 
who paraded on the Mariahilferstrasse prior to the 
war and shouted “Down with the monarchy! up with 
labour!” He had never paid much attention to these 
men as he was in the employ of a great noble who at 
that time kept fourteen servants, rode in his own livery, 
waited on the emperor and attended court functions 
every week in the year. . . He was better off as the 
servant of a rich man than as a labourer for himself, so 
he had nothing in common with social-democracy and 
seldom gave rebellion or the idea of revolution a 
thought. . . 

“Well, are you satisfied now—you, who have lost an 
arm?” shouted the maimed man again.... “Why didn’t 
we all rise, throw over this beastly thing called autoc¬ 
racy and seat ourselves on a throne? Hey, what.... 
there we stood like sheep, all of a kind... They said 
fight—we went to fight; lay down, die—we are all on 
the point of dying! This is the 11th of November, 
1918, and a truce is declared. All the men who were 
at war can come home. Everybody can say 4 We lost 
the war, we are beaten.’ We have to pay heavy in¬ 
demnities; the emperor goes to Switzerland with his 
empress and the children, and my wife and little babies 
are on the street. . . Hey, what? it is a great thing— 
war!” 

Still the man with the iron hand said nothing, and 
the people came more rapidly out of the church. He 
extended his cap and a few cents fell in. Sometimes he 
pointed at the silver medal for bravery on his chest. 
At this his neighbour laughed. He had a medal too 
but he never wore it. 

“I’m a fool too. I never believed in war but I went 
and fought just the same. It is a fever that gets in the 


262 


Merry-Go-Round 


blood. Adler was right: we should have thrown off 

the monarchy long ago. Come, give me a few cents, 

don’t be close... War will never come again!. You 

know, my friend, they offer up thanksgiving that the 
slaughter is at an end, and all the time they will be 

taxed- Will you give me a few kronen, they are 

worth nothing anyway?... Millions of kronen will have 
to be paid in taxes, the war is a costly thing. But 
people never realise that. They see only the great mil¬ 
itary machine that the government built up with a 
flourish of trumpets and with epaulettes on the shoul¬ 
ders-Thank you, thank you, that will buy me bread 

for a week, I eat so little! . . . As I was saying- 

Say, that little woman was generous. Did you see how 
she looked at me? with big, sad eyes. . . I’ll bet you 
she lost her sweetheart in the war.. 

“Say,” he said suddenly, looking at his companion, 
“who are you? what company did you fight with?” 

“Dragoons,” said the other briefly in a thick voice. 

“Dragoons? which?” 

“Fourth Escadrone, Sixth Dragoons....” 

“From Lemberg and up.” 

“Yes, in the Rokitno Swamps. I got this hook 
there...” 

“You were in the swamps? So was I. I was with 
the third. . . I remember- Oh, see here, I be¬ 

lieve they are all coming out!....” 

But the exodus continued slowly because the cathedral 
was so full and also because the holy water fonts occu¬ 
pied all of the congregation. 

Besides the two beggars were a score of others, hun¬ 
gry, tired, ragged, some without caps, some in military 
breeches with civilian coats. Each had a piece of a 
uniform, either the top or the lower, but not the whole 
of it, as they were long out of the trenches and had 
spent some months in a hospital where their clothing 
was discarded or worn out and other rags substituted. 










The Iron Hand 


263 


They stood on the steps, lounged against the building, 
waiting their turn for a little contribution, talking to¬ 
gether, discussing the poverty, the phases of defeat, the 
emperor’s abdication...anything and everything that 
Vienna citizens are interested in, because the spirit had 
not changed—with the suffering, the filth, the mourning 
for father and brother—Vienna still stood for tolera¬ 
tion, they still discussed themselves abstractedly, with a 
certain interest for the fate of all that had been, but 
neither curiosity nor abject melancholy. Only the for¬ 
mer social-democrat continued— 

“You know the worst part of this war was for the 
women... No matter who you are, you get on pretty 
good at the front. You go, expecting to be killed, but 
the women at home, they never think you will be killed 
and then, when the news comes in,—well, the women 
had a hard time of it.... It’s for them that monuments 
are put up. They like to go and see their males on the 
stone. It’s consolation...they haven’t died in vain.... 
They are putting up a big monument to your regi¬ 
ment....” 

“Where is that?” asked the dragoon from the Fourth 
Escadrone. 

“In the Liebenberg Platz, so I heard...” 

“What kind of a monument?” 

“With the names of the officers and the number of 
swords killed. A memorial shaft, it is to stand— . . . 
for God’s sake, a penny!...give a cent, look, I haven’t 
got a leg! Lieher Gott, is that all I am worth?!” . . . 

“Names of officers and number of swords killed,” 
murmured the other to himself. “That means that his 
name will be-” 

“What is that? were you telling me your name?” 
asked the other. 

“No, I was saying— My name is Nepomuck Nav- 
ratil, I come from Sadowa.” 

At this moment a great crowd came out all together, 



264 


Merry-Go-Round 


the doorways filled, the beggars were pressed back. . . 
In order to extend his cap, Nepomuck held out his iron 
hand very stiff, it contacted with the bosom of a wom¬ 
an’s dress; she gave a little cry, stepped back to disen¬ 
gage herself and came up with him, face to face. . . . 

Then she gave a second cry, looked more closely at 
him and right and left to see if she could identify him 
from the throng that was passing. . . . 

He looked at her likewise. 

Fifty-two months had passed, more than four years, 
and the suffering of both had been very great...if they 
were to call each other by name, a further identification 
would be necessary. And this came at once... Another 
woman was behind the first and she called out— 

“Why, it is you! Why are you here? what are you 
doing? Did you come back alone? where is—where 
is-” 

But she got no further. 

Appearance of this man, whom Agnes knew as the 
messenger of Franz Meier, brought her lover immedi¬ 
ately to her mind! She felt faint, saw the crowd swim¬ 
ming before her, and said to her companion, who was 
Marianka Huber, “It is Mr. Navratil...don’t you re¬ 
member? he came to the Prater—a friend of Franz, 
but you ought to—to recall—Franz Meier, don’t you 
know?...flowers...he brought the flowers....” 

Of course! 

Marianka Huber remembered everything. And she 
started to blush, standing there in the doorway of St. 
Stephen’s, recalling also how he brought her flowers... 
when she was sent to prison...when there was not a 
friend in the whole world who cared, besides he, what 
became of her. . . . Tears swam into her eyes. She 
saw his maimed arm, the hook protruding out of the 
coat sleeve where a strong hand, the hand of a peasant 
from Sadowa, ought to have been... and she saw also 
that he was begging and they said to each other— 



The Iron Hand 


265 


Of course! Of course! Let us get out of here...let 
us go some place...” 

“Let’s go home,” said Agnes. 

“But—well—” commenced Nepomuck. 

“Yes, have you any place to go?” 

“No,” said he, blushing. 

“Come along with us...” 

“No,” said he, persisting. 

“And why not?” 

“Because—because, that would be too much...you 
are kind, I—it—is a long story-” 

“That’s just it,” said Agnes at once, “I want to hear 
all about the regiment... Don’t you see,” she whispered 
into his ear, “I want to hear everything... Tell me, 
you know—was—is your friend, Franz Meier, also— 
is he wounded?” 

The Bursche of the Count von Hohenegg, not having 
heard this name for over four years, did not recall it. 
He wrinkled his brow... 

“Oh yes,” he said finally, a painful look swimming 
over the bridge of his nose, into his eyes, over the 
cheek-bones, down to the mouth—“oh yes,—well— 
well-” 

She stared at him fixedly. 

“He is dead,” said Nepomuck, dropping his eyes. 

Dead! 

Somehow this contingency had never occurred to her! 
She had thought of him as wounded, suffering perhaps, 
even minus a finger, a hand, but not a leg nor an arm, 
nor—dead! .... 

How they started out of that crowd and why her 
knees did not buckle underneath her, Agnes never knew. 
She was weak and semi-conscious...nothing impressed 
her...everything was like the top of an ocean, rolling, 
rocking, and she took his good arm for support and 
laid her other hand in Marianka Huber’s, and stag¬ 
gered across the Stephansplatz. . . 





266 


Merry-Go-Round 


They went home, and she was thinking all the time— 
“Francisca will never see him—she will never see her 
father now...oh, how cruel...how terrible! It is im¬ 
possible he is dead...that can’t be, can’t be. . .” 

“You’re sure he fell?” she asked Nepomuck patheti¬ 
cally. 

“I saw him myself...he was so heroic. He was lying 
in the swamps, dying from his wound in the leg...it was 
high up, in the thigh and very painful. I never knew 
it was mortal, and even if I had—it was no use... He 
bound me up, lying there, bleeding there, and they took 
me away. . . It was night. How I remember! All 
was horrible, black night and we lay there watching 
the moon. The moon was a crescent—half a ring, you 
know...and it looked like it swung backward and for¬ 
ward. . . After many hours, I don’t know yet how 
many, they found us. The retreat was going on, so 
they picked me up because I was alive, but they left 
him because he was dead....” 

Marianka said not one word but cried with Agnes 
very gently and softly, listening to the story of Franz 
Meier’s heroic death... And Agnes did not feel the 
tears on her own cheeks and was surprised, when she 
blew her nose, to see them dripping between her shak¬ 
ing fingers. . . . 

Franzl dead! Franzl dead! 

“I was sent to Gratz to the hospital,” he persisted, 
“to lie there for about a year and nothing came further 
except that I lost my arm and came back here without 
anything, not a thing... So here I am, and that’s all. . .” 

Was that all? He had a medal. He had an iron 
hand. His face was thin and drawn. He was an ob¬ 
ject of charity. 

The social-democrat was right. It was all for 
nothing. 

And so they took him in—the women who kept the 
fires burning at home as long as there was coal, and, 


The Iron Hand 


267 


after that, with nothing but the kindling they found 
on the city dumps. . . 

When they climbed the flights of bare wooden stairs 
that led to the garret of the tenement, Marianka, the 
widow of Schani Huber, showed him into a tiny room 
that was like a cell, cheerless, empty except for a wide 
cot, where the ceiling sloped down on three sides and 
the shingle roof was so low they could jump and touch 
it. And she said to him, her voice quivering—or it may 
have been unsteady from mounting the steps one after 
another,— 

“This place is not very nice, but it is something. The 
hunchback, Bartholomew Gruber, lives here. I’ll talk 
to him an’ you can share it with him. I will never 
forget—I—I—how you spoke to me on the Volkspra- 
ter, Mister—Mister Navratil...an’ those—pep—pep¬ 
permint candies....” 

He blushed again. 

“Thanks,” said Nepomuck, gratefully. 




XXXIII 


“15.. 29.. 61” 

He moved in at once. 

But it was not with a poor man that Nepomuck 
Navratil, the count’s man, had his lodging. . . 

Bartholomew Gruber was about to have a very singu¬ 
lar good fortune,—not one that was totally unexpected, 
but which nevertheless fell to him the very day upon 
which peace was declared, that the Emperor Karl 
Franz-Josef abdicated his throne, that the armies of the 
world laid down their arms, that Agnes and Mrs. Hu¬ 
ber prayed in St. Stephen’s Cathedral, that they met 
Nepomuck there by chance and took him home. 

On the same day that the news of his rival’s ill for¬ 
tune came to Agnes’ ears, the hunchback had the best 
of luck. He became a rich man! He—who all during 
the time of that rival’s easy life and carefree, happy 
existence, ate humble bread, earned his few cents in the 
Wurstelprater, and gambled as many as he could scrape 
together weekly in the Kaiserliche-Konigliche Lotterie, 
which was the government gambling license for the 
poor,—now pocketed a splendid fortune 1 The grave¬ 
digger became transformed into a rich man, as carefree 
and happy in his small way as the Count von Hohenegg 
had been in his aristocratic circles. . . 

The Kaiserliche-Konigliche Lotterie had its draw¬ 
ings daily in some city, varying the districts regularly 
through the empire. During the war period these 
drawings went on as usual, today in Innsbruck, tomor¬ 
row in Salzberg or Linz or Vienna, the orphan boys 
from the asylums did the drawing. . . so it was per¬ 
fectly fair, somebody always won a fortune, somebody 
lost, they kept it up—some day they would win, like 

268 


“15.. 29.. 61” 


269 


Bartholomew. The privilege of conducting the booth 
where the money came in and went out was in the 
hands, by government selection, of widows, women who 
had been the wives of old subalterns dead in the war. . . 
Women of this type were in need. They belonged to 
the lower classes. They were old, sarcastic she-devils, 
perfectly honest with the government’s records, but 
hardly so honest with their neighbours or their neigh¬ 
bours’ affairs... They liked to gossip. The lottery 
counter saw the laundry of the whole district washed, 
sprinkled, ironed, hung out on the line, taken in, turned 
over, checked and made public property through the 
tongues of the vicious proprietress and her assistant, 
who knew the scandal in every family, mouthed it, sent 
it back and forth to the customers through their broken 
teeth and allowed no one the slightest charity. . . The 
proprietress was the social disturber of the street, the 
Mrs. Grundy without fear but with much reproach in 
the gutters. . . 

On the morning of November 11th, Bartholomew 
made his forty-second trip to the booth on der IV'oli¬ 
vette 1 . He got up in the morning feeling melancholy. 
He had had a bad dream. It showed him running 
down the street with only his night-shirt on and passing 
a wide ditch where two women were praying. They 
looked at him...he felt embarrassed. . . “Now, what 
am I doing here in my night-shirt?” he heard himself 
telling himself, and tried to run away. But then his 
feet were fastened to the ground; he looked up at a 
square building, and so forth and so on. . . 

When he looked into his dream book, he saw two 
things: that the street was number thirty-six and the 
women were number four. So he looked at his latest 
lottery ticket which bore three numbers—he played the 
system that the biggest gamblers used, Terno Secco, 


Street where one of the chief lottery offices was located. 



270 


Merry-Go-Round 


which was Italian and meant “three numbers coming 
out”—and saw that the drawing would be over and he 
should have won or lost by the time he dressed himself 
and went to the booth. . . 

He threw on his clothes, still sweating from his 
dream. 

If he lost again, he would bet again: three numbers, 
four twice, as there were two women, and thirty-six for 
the street. . . 

As he came to the Bude 1 all the church bells were 
ringing. Distinctly something must have taken place, 
but he stopped outside and looked at the numbers. . . 
Above his head on the little shop that held the fate of 
servant maids, sewing women, janitresses, portiers, la¬ 
bourers,—where poor men or their widows or single 
girls gave up all their hopes or still built air-castles,— 
was a sign with black letters on a yellow background, 
the old colours although the church bells were 
ringing!— 

IMPERIAL AND ROYAL LOTTERY . 

He did not look toward this sign. He looked no¬ 
where, except in one direction—neither up or down or 
behind him. His eyes focussed straight ahead on one 
side of the doorway that led in where a blackboard was 
hanging in a great state of dilapidation. The face of 
the board was wormeaten by the number of little tacks 
that had been placed and removed, holding square 
tickets, each a slip of paper with a number on it. . . 

He now looked at these numbers. There were two. 
The third had not yet been recorded. Presently the 
proprietress with four teeth in her head and an ugly 
grin that came from a choice piece of gossip or some 
such luxury, would make her appearance, coming out 
of the door with the third slip that meant life or death 
to so many people. 


1 booth. 



“15.. 29.. 61” 


271 


The first number was fifteen. 

“ 15 !” 

He looked at it, rubbed his eyes, compared it with 
his number and gasped! The second was twenty- 
nine. . . 

He had so often gambled and lost that the sight of 
his winning numbers made him dizzy. His eyes like 
plates, he stood fastened to the spot and waited for 
the third, his number sixty-one to come out.... and he 
expected this! Something told him, having won at 
last on two counts, that his sixty-one would be the 
third. 

There have been thousands of cases where gamblers 
who have lost consistently for ten, twelve, fifteen years, 
as inconsistently will win at the end of this time. They 
make up with one winning for all their previous losses 
and pocket a good balance besides. The story is too 
common to be exaggerated. . . every day is a heyday 
for some gambler...he has only to wait. Patience is the 
great virtue. If a gambler is an optimist, and he must 
be to be a gambler, his optimism will spur him on and in 
the end it makes him rich. 

So Bartholomew. He followed the proprietress in¬ 
doors with his slip in his hand. Fifteen—twenty-nine— 
sixty-one! 

He saw himself in a small room with frightful wall¬ 
paper and a smell like a post-office. . . A counter held 
a ledger and receipt-books. In the corner was 
a safe. 

What was in that safe, his money? 

There was the assistant proprietress sitting on a 
stool. She had glasses on the end of her pimply nose. . . 

“Well, you want to buy a ticket?” 

“I have won,” said Bartholomew. 

She pulled up her nose at him— 

“Let me see....” 

“Here is my receipt,” he said,—“you can see, it is 



272 Merry-Go-Round 

fifteen, twenty-nine, sixty-one...how much is the prize, 
please?” 

“You know, Lisbeth, I don’t care what’s her age, 
she should know better. If it was the first or the sec¬ 
ond...but the fourth, pfui... and each by a different 
father! . . . Give me your ticket.” 

She pushed her glasses up close to her eyes, looking 
at the numbers... 

What was he thinking of at this moment? He 
thought that now he had won some big sum of money 
he could ask Agnes to marry him and she would not re¬ 
fuse, as he had enough for them both. 

He heard the proprietress answer the assistant, as if 
they were all alone in the Bude—“W ass notig... how 
comes it, always dirtiness and filth...there ain’t a cent 
in that family, she can’t eat four times the week...” 

“You speak as if you sympathised...me? I can’t see 
but schweinerei in it ...sie konnt ja den mit dem puckel 
heirathen, auch wenn er nix hat...” 1 

While they were not speaking of him, but in the 
neighbourhood, he felt uncomfortable. . . 

“Hat ja nix! what do you think? he should take over 
little children?... it makes me sick...what a slut! look, 
she hasn’t got milk for the third, and has a fourth one... 
is that decent, such a public spittoon!....” 

“Now I haven’t said anything...but it comes to me—” 

“Ladies,” interposed Bartholomew kindly, “I am 
waiting for my money... Is it fair to keep me waiting? 
who knows, I may be hungry...” 

Both looked at him. 

“See here, I think he has won,” commenced the as¬ 
sistant. 

“How much does it bring?” he asked eagerly. 

“If you compare the numbers, it looks the same...is 
it possible?” 


lu She could marry that hunchback even if he has nothing.’ 



“15..29..61” 


273 


“You see it is,” Bartholomew insisted. 

Then the proprietress sat down on the stool as the 
assistant got off, so that she could look at the little slip 
of paper to study it further. . . 

A short, stout girl with her dresses very high came 
into the booth. 

“Ah-ha, Nannie, you ain’t won it...this gentleman 
has,” said the assistant. 

“How do you know what I come for? not that,” 
said the girl. “I’m lookin’ for-” 

“She’s lookin’ for Hans Kastensteg...you don’t find 
him here. He’s by Guda Meixner....” 

“It’s a lie!” 

“Eh-he-he...” chuckled the old woman... “you hear 
that, Lisbeth, she says I’m a liar an’ all the town knows 
he’s been-” 

“You don’t know! you just say that...it’s a rotten lie, 
I tell you, and it’s wrong for you to repeat it.” 

“Repeat it—he-he...what a story-teller now, an’ the 
girl as big as a house....” 

“It wasn’t him.” 

“She came by it honestly, I guess?” . . . 

Still Bartholomew did not know what he had won. 

The proprietress put in a word or two, all three 
started quarreling... he commenced to wonder whether 
his receipt would disappear in the midst of the 
row. 

It took him, in all, half a day to collect his money. 
He bought another chance on the numbers he had 
dreamed. They were still wrangling with more scandal 
when he left, and he pocketed sixty thousand kronen, 
the most he had ever seen in his life, placing part in 
each pocket of his clothing, and left to see why the 
church bells had been ringing all the day. . . 

This was not hard to find out... Peace had been de¬ 
termined on in an armistice. Commotion ruled the 
whole town. He did not know where he was with so 




274 Merry-Go-Round 

much celebration and found the shops half closed, half 
open. 

His first thoughts were to spend some of his money. 
It does not take long to spend money. Bartholomew 
found he had a good welcome everywhere. The shop¬ 
keepers sold him packages of all kinds, fruits, candies, 
nuts, some new fine clothing from top to toe so he looked 
like a prince incognito, only his hunch stuck out so prom¬ 
inently behind between his shoulder blades. . . . 

Bartholomew bought one thing, besides his clothes, 
for himself. This was a little revolver. He felt safer 
with the protection in his pocket; he was a rich man, 
might be robbed, certainly had to take precautions.... 
And so, when he arrived back in the place he called 
home, it was night time, another man was in his bed— 
a part of it, at least—and he knocked and was admitted 
at the room across the narrow top story, namely the 
larger room housing Agnes, Marianka, Aurora Ross- 
reiter, asthmatic as usual, and little Francisca, asleep in 
her single blanket, wrapped very tightly like a ball and 
just three and a half years old. . . 

“Ladies, here I am!” cried out the hunchback, enter¬ 
ing elaborately and turning in fast circles on his toes, 
displaying himself from all sides... “See me as I am. 
I have won a fortune and have new clothes. . .” 

“Bartholomew!” cried Agnes. 

Marianka’s eyes stuck out of her head. 

Mrs. Rossreiter wheezed for a full minute and then 
managed to say—“Well, thank goodness, somebuddy’s 
had some luck... I ain’t heard nothin’ but ill tales all 
day....” 

“What bad news?” he asked anxiously... 

“Agnes’ baby’s father’s dead...died at the war front. 
They’ve lost their jobs...nobuddy’s got any real luck, 
’ceptin’ you, it seems, Mister Gruber.” 

Now he turned his eyes on Agnes and saw she was 
hollow-eyed and worn. His heart rose in sympathy... 


“15.. 29.. 61” 


275 


Many things swam over him at once, her face with its 
brave smile summoned up to reassure him, her pathetic 
eyes downcast, his good fortune which meant his ability 
to give her all comforts in life, the death of Franz 
Meier, as he knew him, that opened the way for his own 
happiness. . . 

Then his eyes fell, he felt shy, offered his little 
sweetmeats and knick-knacks with some confusion. But 
presently all was straightened out. 

“Didn’t I always say I’d win!” he said triumphant¬ 
ly... “an’ when I win, you win,” he managed to murmur 
into Agnes’ ear... “remember, I told you... I got some¬ 
thin’ else for you, Agnes...you know what it is?” 

She shook her head. 

“Guess?” 

She could not guess. 

“Well—” he looked about him, “it’s this... if—if 
you’ll come and look out of the window, I’ll show you.” 

Obediently she went- to the window. 

Far off the lights shone in the Prater... The Riesen- 
rad, mute and still, yet had its outlines painted against 
the sky by little electric torches. . . 

She looked at this. She felt her hand taken. The 
room itself became dim with only the presence of Bar¬ 
tholomew beside her...and she experienced a nameless 
fear, a fear that spent itself as soon as it came, his light 
touch on her palm was so kind... Then he slipped 
something on to her third finger and kissed it and 
blessed it, tremblingly, as he held it there. . . 

“I love you, Agnes...1 never said nothin’ to you for 
I knew that you loved—him. . . but now that he’s 
gone, I’m tellin’ you....” 

There was the Riesenrad. And beneath the great 
wheel was her park, full of lilac blossoms and acacia in 
the summer... There was the garden of her little ro¬ 
mance, the dream of a day and a night. . . 

“I’ve got money enough to go into partnership with 


276 


Merry-Go-Round 


Mrs. Rossreiter...we’ll go back to the Prater... The 
war’s over, I’m well-to-do...we’ll hear the noise, the 
people, the music...all of it over again...” his voice went 
on caressing her. . . The two in the room who were 
outsiders to this conversation discreetly closed their ears 
and eyes. 

“You’ll be so happy, so very, very happy...” he kissed 
her hair and her hands... Slowly she turned her face to 
his. “Then—you want to?” 

Now she looked at him through her tears...nodded 
faintly and was embraced.... 

Oh yes, the swallows would come again and the 
Riesenrad would revolve. And the merry-go-round 
would be opened in springtime to go ’round and ’round 
and ’round. . . 


XXXIV 


NICKI, RUDI AND EITEL 

When February came a great many changes had 
taken place. Where the proud Swiss door—the ancient 
Schweizertor of the Hofburg—stood with its two col¬ 
umns, single arch and imperial coat-of-arms above, was 
now a sign reading “WARENLAGER.” This door 
was the finest relic in Vienna and had a history all its 
own, dating from the year 800. Still, trade, commer¬ 
cialism, a revolutionary atmosphere had made a ware¬ 
house of it where furniture was stored... Men in work¬ 
ing clothes carried an arm-chair and a piano and bed¬ 
room furniture and so on into the palace, as business 
of moving determined; and before the arch, in place of 
soldiers, several children were playing, screaming as 
they bombarded each other with snow-balls. . . 

The day was bitter cold... snow fell at intervals. 
The Hercules statues 1 were coated with ice. Ice floated 
in the Danube Channel, the Iron Man on the city hall 
was invisible in the downfall, and on the ground were 
several inches of the soft white carpet which accompa¬ 
nies low temperatures, but not too low to precipitate. . . 

In this uncertain weather, clearing and obscuring, it 
was yet necessary to sweep the streets, to encourage 
traffic, to keep up the commerce of a city. Men with 
shovels and horses dragging wagons, appeared. They 
shovelled up the snow, cleared the gutters. . . The 
sewage system must not be hampered. They emptied 
drain holes, opened the car tracks. . . 

When they came to the Hofburg there were two 
wagons, half-filled, and four men, as two is a crew. . . 
As the shovels scraped, the snow went into little 

1 four colossal statues of Hercules on the new palace gate. 

277 



278 


Merry-Go-Round 


mounds... soon these would be stacks or mountains if 
they were not reduced, and so the men lifted them by 
heaving up on a grand scale and spilling the shovel- 
fulls into their carts, which would drag them away. 

At the same time that this shovelling was going on, 
another institution associated with winter took place 
also in the vicinity. This is the business carried on by 
little merchants, each one for himself and on the most 
diminutive scale—that of chestnut roasting. A single 
little caldron or chestnut roaster is used; the nuts lie on 
the coals until their jackets burst open, when the mer¬ 
chant, who stamps his feet to warm himself in the snow 
or beats his breast with his arms or clasps his naked 
ears, shivering, peels off half the outer coat, lays them 
with the kernel exposed back among the ashes and 
waits for his customers... Sometimes sixty kronen are 
made in this way in a day, enough to pay at the rate of 
exchange for a bed and a meal; the rest of the time the 
digestive tract is left idle. . . 

And so it happened on this day when the snow- 
shovellers were working before the Schweitzertor of the 
former palace that a chestnut roaster stood by the arch¬ 
way. His long coat was frayed and badly soiled, the 
boots of an officer of uhlans were on his feet, his ears 
were red under his service cap. . . These ears were 
very protrusive, sticking out from his head, but not in 
an ugly manner. Still they were poor ears to have fas¬ 
tened to the head in this sort of weather because they 
stopped the wind, froze gently and gave the tympanum 
inside much pain. . . 

The man had sea-blue eyes. His hair was clipped in 
the cavalry manner, that is, there was none around the 
ears... and there he stood, stomping, turning over the 
little chestnuts, whistling into the air and trying to at¬ 
tract a buyer from among the stray populace tramping 
by him. . . 

Among the snow-shovellers was a man of prodigious 


Nicki, Rudi and Eitel 


279 


strength. He threw twice as much snow from his in¬ 
strument into the wagons as any man around him. 
While he did this he gave out a grunt, rhythmically, 
wrinkled up his forehead, which would have been seen 
to correspond with his kinky hair underneath his fur 
cap, if the hair were not covered and out of sight... This 
man also clucked to the horses as if he understood them, 
took them by the bridles, backed them and led them 
forward. . . 

“Now, see here, take your wagon over to the new 
palace gate,” he said to the other driver, as he com¬ 
manded one of the wagons... “I’ll come after, I want 
to buy some chestnuts...” 

He placed his index finger against his nostril and 
blew his nose into the snow. Then he walked away, 
toward the chestnut roaster, swinging his shovel as if it 
were a twig. . . 

“Give me two cents of chestnuts,” he said to the 
little business man. “Pick them clean... my God, what 
a cold hour, the thermometer is falling. . .” 

“Hello, Nicki!” said the other man, “what are you 
doing here? where did you come from? are you shovel¬ 
ling snow?!” . . . 

“Rudi,” said Nicki, “positively you gave me a shock! 
Yes, my friend, it is I...” 

“And I, I.” 

“So we are both working men!” 

Rudi burst out laughing. . . 

“I fought-” 

They both commenced to tell each other their ex¬ 
periences. . . where they fought, how they fought, who 
was alive, who dead, how Rudi lost two fingers of his 
right hand, which were missing, how Nicki was shell¬ 
shocked and lost the sight of his right eye. 

Here they were, labouring at their different occupa¬ 
tions and both wiped clean in the struggle of Austria 
for democracy, estates forfeited, without means to keep 



280 


Merry-Go-Round 

up city residences, and both good-natured, perfectly 
composed, wearing a smile and showing teeth, putter¬ 
ing about in the snow and shaking hands over a chest¬ 
nut roaster. 

u Und, mein lieber Freund, ,f said Nicki,—“have you 
heard the latest about Eitel?...” 

“No, I have not,” said Rudi. 

“Well, he is a shoe-polisher...” 

“What?!” 

“Ha-ha-ha...” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Eitel, Prince Hochmut!” 

“It is so.” 

“Where?” 

“In the Metropole... he stands there, morning and 
night. You see him every day. Yesterday, when I 
cleared off the manure from the streets in front of the 
hotel—it was not snowing yet,—there he was inside the 
glass doors of the basement... I saw him through the 
panes. He has his glass in his eye and his gloves cov¬ 
ering his dainty hands, but it is the same polishing that 
any Schuhputzer 1 does.... He cuts the fingers off his 
gloves, ha-ha-ha!... And yesterday there was a little 
Jew sitting on the chair with a kaftan. The kind of 
Jew he used to wiggle his fingers at the nose to. And 
the prince puts his nose aside—so, so he should not smell 
the garlic, and shines the Jew’s shoes. . . 

“It’s a great life... He also stands by the windows, 
when the chair is empty, and sees the women outside. 
They go past and he looks after. Now he can only 
look, he has no more money than you or me—ha-ha- 
ha !” . . . 

“Well, I must see Eitel.” 

“By all means.” 

“And Franzl, Nicki?” 


^hoe-shiner. 



Nicki, Rudi and Eitel 


281 


“Ah, Franzl,—that’s a different matter, my friend. 
Franzl is dead.” 

“When? how?” 

“He fell at Rokitno—before the Russians...” 

“Is it possible!” 

“Yes. You know how I know?” 

“No.” 

“Well, you see it on the monument. Go over to the 
Liebenberg Platz where the shaft has just been erected 
to commemorate those brave fellows of the Sixth 
Dragoons. There you see his name, in brass against 
the stone, FRANZ MAXMILLIAN VON HOHEN- 
EGG, captain Imperial and Royal Sixth Dragoons. It’s 
a sad sight... Well, good-bye, I have to go after my 
snow-wagon or I lose my job... Good-bye, I know 
where to find you, maybe we will see each other 
again...” 

“Here, take your chestnuts!” Rudi called after... 

“Ha-ha-ha...” 

As Nicki turned his back and started away with long 
strides, he encountered a woman who was standing a 
dozen yards from the Schweitzertor, her legs wrapped 
and bound in newspapers, a child by the hand whose 
legs were similarly wrapped, and who carried in her 
tiny little mitten a single large full-blown white rose. . . 

“Were you looking for someone?” said Nicki po¬ 
litely. He never forgot his courtly manners. And, be¬ 
sides, the woman was young and poorly dressed but 
very pretty. . . 

“I am lookin’ for the monument to the Sixth Dra¬ 
goons,” said the lady in a low voice... 

“It is on the Liebenberg Platz... go over three blocks 
to the right, then one so and one so...” he pointed with 
his shovel. 

“I know.” She knew the locations in Vienna per¬ 
fectly. 

“Well—have a chestnut...for your little baby!” of- 


282 


M erry-Go-Round 


fered Nicki graciously. In this way he detained her, 
but it came to nothing. He was acting from long habit, 
a beautiful face, distress.... But the war was over, he 
was no longer the condescending nobleman, but a sim¬ 
ple workman in working clothes trying to make a 
living. . . 

So she thanked him. He looked familiar to her, she 
couldn’t place him and departed.... 

Rudi, who had watched the by-play, now passed a 
wink over his shoulder to Nicki... 

"Sehr lieb!” 1 

“ Tres jo lie! 

“La-la-la...” 

The woman went on. If Nicki had recognised her 
by association he would have seen the merry-go-round 
before him, the swarming crowds of the Prater, the 
vision of Schani Huber, now dead, standing before his 
Ringelspiel and Franzl and Fanny and Mitzerl and 
Rudi and himself all sitting on horses that were as 
inanimate as clay until the organ started playing. This 
little girl at the organ set everything in motion. It 
was the signal, brought about by the sign from the 
Ausrufer who was Huber, and around they went—like 
life!—spinning, going up and down, galloping unnat¬ 
urally over the same spots for ten minutes and arriving 
in a different location, because events upset kingdoms, 
throw governments in the air, make the poor rich, rich 
poor and so on and so further. . . . 

This he would have seen. But he didn’t recognise 
her. It made no difference. She was not looking for 
him or for his companion, Rudi. Her thoughts were 
on the Liebenberg Monument, erected to commemorate 
the Sixth Dragoons, and she bent her footsteps that 
way. 

Nepomuck had told Agnes of this Denkmal 2 . The 


1 “Very nice!” 

2 literally, think-reminder, memorial column or statue. 



Nicki, Rudi and Eitel 


283 


social-democrat before the St. Stephen’s Cathedral had 
told him... She set out—snow meant nothing, tramp¬ 
ing about in cold weather was preferable to sitting 
without occupation in her chill room... Francisca by 
the hand, she brought her before the square enormous 
shaft, as white as the snow and ice of winter, as cold, 
as cheerless, as significant of death, disaster, turmoil. . . 

Now it stood silent and opaque. 

About the base, which widened in a great rectangle, 
were four stark posts at the corners and chains between, 
running around the monument at several feet distance. 
The chains sagged in the middle, which is the nature of 
heavy metal, forming a swinging arc, concavely... only 
now the chains were still, laden with at least three inches 
of flakey, dry snow balancing, immune to a breath of 
air, and giving the appearance of ribbons, stretching 
like a decoration. Within this square were wreaths 
half-buried by the drift of frozen water, the badges 
and silk streamers painting the background all colours 
as the dyes ran out, melting with the snow. Their 
flowers were withered and dry... Whatever societies 
had sent these floral offerings, now the winter was 
sweeping over them, they were becoming effaced, and 
in thirty days the cenotaph would be as ancient in the 
minds of the Vienna populace as Radetzky, Prince 
Eugene of Savoy, Schwartzenberg and Archduke 
Charles, or Schwind or Anzengruber or any of the rest 
of them. . . . 

Agnes stood as silent as the stone and looked upon 
its face... 

There was his name: FRANZ MAXMILLIAN 
VON HOHENEGG... 

There it was—cold, immutable... His marble form 
could not have been more terrifying! She felt her 
heart tremble in her bosom.... 

“Francisca,” she said hoarsely, timorously, “dar¬ 
ling...” She clutched her to her breast, lifted her up 


284 


Merry-Go-Round 


so she could see the name... “That is your father’s 
name... see, it is written. That says, Franz Maxmillian 
von Hohenegg... can you see?” 

“Yes, mudder,” said the little girl... 

“Little letters...one after the other...” 

The child looked at her with wide eyes— 

“Dat ’is name, mudder dear?” 

“Yes, sweetheart.” 

“What’s it doin’ dere?” 

“The people put it there because he died...” 

“In da war?” 

“Yes, Francisca.” 

“Fightin’?... whatcha cryin’ for, mudder?” 

“Take your white rose, darling, and go under the 
chains... lay it there—right where you see the big bou¬ 
quets...” 

Under the chains she went and the snow fell on her 
little cap. 

The city was bustling around. The feet of the multi¬ 
tude crunched the sidewalks,—passing each other in 
narrow files where a pathway was worn... The sky re¬ 
mained leaden, but the snow had ceased falling; only 
the white rose lay, like a crystal messenger from Heav¬ 
en, among the pigments, red and blue and purple, but 
mostly red! spreading from the ribbons into nature’s 
blanket at the foot of the Liebenberg Memorial. . . 


XXXV 


PROFITEERS 

The jewels of the Countess Gisella, which accompa¬ 
nied Jock Steers from the moment that the unfortunate 
lady handed them to him before her house, before the 
war, during the war took a very peculiar mission on 
themselves. The mission was associated with Jock 
Steers. He had his little love affair with their mistress, 
then with “Annie,” the nondescript character from the 
Caffe Martin; and Jock continued his career of silly 
amours, commencing with this girl where he left off 
with the countess, to a chambermaid in the hotel, sev¬ 
eral women outside, a harlot, a little stray kitten from 
a dark alley in the same district, a laundress...and from 
there, the idea came to him that he could very valuably 
use his time if he backed it with money in America.... 

America was the land of rapid fortunes. 

He sailed from Venice. . . 

Now, a man who carries on his person ninety thou¬ 
sand dollars’ worth of jewels with the purpose of mul¬ 
tiplying this sum by twelve, can very well do so if he 
understands a trade. 

The horseman’s trade is one of international calibre. 
He could play race-horse man on innumerable tracks in 
the States if he wanted to. But this was not Jock’s 
purpose. 

He thought of something else. The boat, docking in 
Philadelphia, brought him in touch with Maryland. 
The race-track here is Pimlico...thither he went. 

But he had no sooner gotten there than events 
changed his mind. He did not hazard one dollar on 
the tracks. His English came back to him, connections 
before he left the Freudenau in Vienna under the von 


285 


286 


Merry-Go-Round 


Steinbrueck livery, and he met here a man who was 

formerly a part of the earl of C-’s stable, the very 

one to which he was attached as a trainer, horse-washer 
and utility man. . . 

Jock met this man in the paddock at Pimlico... He 
had always called him Rusty, an old man, honest at the 
boot-heels but corrupt all the way up! 

Rusty called him Jock and shook his hand. His own 
was horny, made of leather like his face, and said to 
him— 

“Out of a job, are you? Fell in soft, didja? where 
d’ja git them diamon’s now?” . . . 

Jock had them in his neck-tie, on both hands and on 
the top of his walking stick. He also wore Gisella’s 
chatelaine with sapphires along the top in his pocket as 
a purse. He had her cigar-case engraved with his own 
initials. The blue stone was converted into cash—in 
his pockets, like the balance of her casket. . . 

“Aw,” he said, “things broke right... I’m a rich man. 
Say, Rusty, this Uncle Towser’s scratched...they tell 
me he was a great hoss.” 

“Great? Sure...too good t’ run...couldn’t ’andicap 
’im enough...I say, Jock,—now lisson...I ain’t h’askin’ 
ya for a touch, I don’t want no charities... I’m thinkin’, 
—’ell! if I ’ad some money or could git some, I’d make 
’em all look sick. See now, I got a scheme...want to 
’ear it? Come over with me—gimme a chanct to 
talk... this ’ere game o’ race-’osses is a joke...a piker 

game. I got a bigger one, somethin’ in your line. 

wanna play me?” 

“How much? what is it?” 

“Lissun... them countries, Hingland, France, the 
Dutch—they’re all at war, hey?” 

“Well...” 

“They got buyers in this countree, wantin’ supplies— 
get me?” 

“Sure...” 




Profiteers 


287 


“Well, ’osses is one o’ them things which ev’ry coun¬ 
tree’s gotta ’ave, hey? Now look ’ere, say we know 
where t’ git ’em, you kin sell ev’ry ’oss you kin git an’ 
the money’s like takin’ pap from babies....” 

“Where’d you get the ’orses?” 

“Montana.” 

“Where’s that at?” 

“Western United States. Two thousan’ miles from 
’ere...” 

“You know how t’ get there?” 

“Sure...take a train.” 

“What do they want for ’em?” . . . 

“Nothin’... next t’ nothin’... three, four dollars 
apiece... I got the tip from a tout what’s gone broke... 
he thought I could clean up here and go into business 
with ’im, but I’m flat... we’ll go it three ways. You 
put up the kale, I go west, he sells ’em to the French 
an’ we splits...” 

“At three dollars apiece what do you get from the 
French agent?” 

“Seventeen dollars! a pipe! wot t’ hell, we make 
thirteen dollars on every ’ead, and the French boz, they 
rides the dam’ skunks into the trenches! What th’ hell 
do we care what they does with ’em... they only lasts a 
day on the battlefield h’anyway... But the more the 
merrier, says I...we makes, lose or gain...” 

Jock Steers thought this proposition over. Finally 
he came to the conclusion that he didn’t need Rusty, 
he didn’t need the “tout” that had the French connec¬ 
tion; he could spring this connection himself. And so 
he did what so many other “profiteers” did, who got 
the tips on which they built their fortunes from their 
best friends,—he cut the “best friend” out, went over 
his head, around his neck and dipped his hand into his 
intellectual pocket. . . 

Money talks... He took the first train for Montana. 
At Bozeman he hopped off the train, took a trip out 


288 


Merry-Go-Round 


to one of the big ranches and commenced to deal in 
horse-flesh. He picked these third-string cayuses up 
for three dollars apiece on a flat deal of twelve thou¬ 
sand head to commence with. 

Now, having laid down thirty-six thousand dollars, 
he had the lean ones assorted from the fat, sent the 
sleek ones east on four trains of box-cars, properly 
fed, to a New Jersey stockade, paid a feed bill for 
those left behind to fatten and took his own Pullman 
to New York City. 

Jock’s ideas of profiteering here took on a more 
subtle form... 

He had the horse-flesh, he could talk... The French 
consulate was only too glad to send him an expert. 
Artillery is brought to the war front by horse-power, 
after it is unloaded from railroads, so these Montana 
quadrupeds were in demand. He could have sold to 
the Belgians, Serbs or Russians... He chose the French 
because he had a good tip and besides he had an idea, 
which was to corrupt somebody and which he under¬ 
stood could be worked on the French... They were a 
republic, had graft, officials who took bribes and stirred 
them with sentiment to form patriotism.... 

So he went to the French. 

Now, the consul sent him a very good expert. His 
name was Rene Saval. He was a captain in the Fifth 
Hussars of Nancy, a middle-aged man, incorruptible, 
unmarried, able to live on his salary, had lost his grand¬ 
father in 1815 and two uncles in 1870, and had no de¬ 
sire to do any sharp dealing outside of his official busi¬ 
ness,—which honour gave the horse-dealer from Eng¬ 
land something of a shock! 

He, therefore, hit upon still another variation of this 
subtle scheme... The horses, bought for seventeen 
dollars per head, were consigned to French bottoms... 
The “Rochambeau” of the Federation Internationale 
Transatlantique, sailing to Bordeaux, took the first 


Profiteers 


289 


consignment over... and with this boat he perpetrated 
the first of his daring outrages toward the Entente to 
which, by virtue of his birth, he was indebted for 
citizenship. . . 

He corrupted the purser of the “Rochambeau!” 

One thousand head of fattened horse-flesh were 
driven from their stockades to the pier of the ship... 
The purser, with his pencil and pad, stood on one side 
of the gangplank; the expert, Captain Saval, incor¬ 
ruptible gentleman of France, opposite him, likewise 
with a pad and pencil... The ship was to carry three 
thousand head of the Steers’ purchase to Bordeaux. 
The checking began.... 

The horses ran onto the ship, were herded in the 
hold, an opening, equally wide with the entrance, was 
provided on the other side of the ship where she lay in 
the Hudson River, and at this exposed side was a 
barge large enough to accomodate a hundred of the 
herd. . . As the horses went in, they came out! The 
purser knew it; he arranged for the transfer aboard 
the barge. The expert did not know it, Saval was 
deceived. . . The barge was towed to a landing two 
hundred feet below and out of sight of the expert, 
where the cargo was transferred back to the stockade, 
the horses went on the pier again and the expert checked 
them off in good faith. . . 

When one thousand were actually on board the 
“Rochambeau,” three thousand were accounted for. 
The ship lifted anchor. Overseas they went. On ar¬ 
rival in Bordeaux the purser made his report— 

“On account of heavy storms encountered in mid¬ 
ocean, two thousand head of the herd loaded at Ho¬ 
boken, New Jersey, which numbered three thousand 
at port of lading, died aboard ship and were buried 
at sea.” . . . 

This report was official. It sufficed to cover the 
deficiency and the purser and Jock Steers divided the 


290 


Merry-Go-Round 


difference between one and three thousands, multi¬ 
plied by seventeen and expressed in terms of horse¬ 
flesh. 

It does not take a man long to get rich when he 
originates such schemes. Honour, for such a man, is 
only another word in the dictionary... He is a thief by 
choice and a profiteer by courtesy.... 

Such men are not always prosecuted. Jock Steers 
did not get caught, the purser made himself an eventual 
power in France by buying a shipping line with his 
profit, and the animals overseas simply went into the 
trenches and stayed there! 

Rats were found in the trenches later on, fat, au¬ 
dacious rodents that over-ran half the eastern prov¬ 
inces, glutted with horse-flesh, putrid and destructible... 
But all this mattered very little to the man who gained 
a single object—wealth from the source of Vienna, 
from the von Steinbrueck heirlooms, propagated on 
American soil to grow a fine new family tree.... 

He had the audacity—which vied with the rats of 
France—to return to Vienna as soon as hostilities ended 
and there to buy up a very fine residence. The palais 
stood on Auerspergstrasse, No. 10,—the former home 
of the von Hoheneggs... He did this out of sentiment, 
for he never forgot that the fiancee of this man was 
responsible for the foundation of his fortune.... 

He bought himself a splendid Daimler car, mounted 
by a footman and a driver in livery. He copied the 
ancient aristocrats in everything, except that he could 
never learn to dress like a gentleman. He remained 
to his dying day in checked suitings, with a heavy gold 
chain over his stomach attached to his watch, a neck¬ 
tie pin built in the form of a horse-shoe, with a diamond 
set in at each nail, a long, black cigar in his mouth now 
at the underworld angle and rings on his heavy, mis¬ 
shapen and carefully manicured hands. . . . 

This was Jock Steers, millionaire autocrat. . . The 


Profiteers 


291 


von Hohenegg crest was over his door, engraved above 
his initials in a large gold flare on the side of his auto¬ 
mobile. When he went driving the beggars got out of 
his way, because he trampled on them in his autocracy... 
he could not be expected to see what was beneath his 
eye—a man with twelve millions of dollars!.... 

And one day he was called to the ministry of public 
instruction and offered the opportunity of endowing a 
chair at the university which was to teach diplomacy, 
or the art of keeping the world’s peace. . . 

“Now, I may as well show myself,” thought Jock. 
“Peace is a great thing. I hope it lasts. I wanna keep 
what I got!” 

So he ordered his Daimler car and the chauffeur and 
footman in livery. He came out of his house as his 
portier opened the door. He crossed to mount the 
machine and saw a man curiously looking at him from 
the gutter. . . The man was tall and thin, very sallow 
and looked as if he had undergone much suffering. . . 

Although this man only had two kronen in his 
pockets, he did not ask for charity. He simply stood, 
muffled to his chin in a faded ulster, because it was a 
cold day and the snow was on the ground, and his eyes 
roamed greedily over the number—10, Auersperg- 
strasse—on the house front... He looked as well at 
the Atlas statues, freshly cleaned and scoured, at the 
portier, the lamps, the gratings on the windows. His 
hat was pulled over his eyes and he peered at the horsey 
individual coming out of the great mansion and 
stepping into his livery.... 

Now the vehicle started. A cloud of the heavy, 
yellow smoke of the exhaust burst directly into the 
man’s face...it enveloped him, he was blotted from 
view! At the same time the Austrian Daimler car 
withdrew in the distance. 



XXXVI 


ALL THE WORLD WAS COLD 

As her jewels travelled from hand to hand, Gisella 
did likewise. In the end she wrote her father for 
funds, but the letter, addressed to him from Viterbo on 
the day she was released from internment, fell into the 
hands of Katinka Komirsky, which was Madame El¬ 
vira’s real name, but which she had by this time ex¬ 
changed for Madame the Countess Conrad von Stein- 
brueck, under the respectable guise of democracy which 
swept over the empire. . . 

Married women became widows; single women with 
a past exchanged the past for a future and were looked 
upon as Austria’s best representation under her new 
state; and so, living now at 14, Obere Augartenstrasse, 
where he had fled with his possessions, the former w’ar 
minister gave up his palais on Bartensteingasse, saw it 
crumble to decay, carry a sign “Zu Vermieten,” mean¬ 
ing “To Rent,” felt his own bones crumble, became 
a victim of locomotor ataxia, a dread disease, and saw 
himself condemned toward his declining years to the 
confines of a rolling chair. . . 

Here he played the perfect baby. And Elvira, the 
consummate actress that she was, devoted herself to his 
service by attending to his fortune. She managed very 
well. She had accomplished her aim in life. She bore 
a title, wore a smug look, administered goodly sums— 
a royal income!—was free to go about as she pleased, 
as the old reprobate, held fast as in a vice, was able 
neither to squirm nor protest, from his illness. 

So the communication from Gisella fell into her step¬ 
mother’s hands.... 

Elvira smiled a shrewd smile. She made a neat blaze 
292 


All the World Was Cold 


293 


in her boudoir mantelpiece of the letter, fanned the 
flame with her hand. . . 

“I’m afraid we shall never see the Komtesse Gisella 
again,” she said to old Steinbrueck. 

“Eh?” he replied. 

“I mean she has taken leave of this world.” 

“Eh?” 

“She’s dead!” . . . 

Well, he was not disturbed. It was a fitting end. 

“Tell Ludwig to make my punches better... I feel 
cold all through, don’t you think the window should 
be closed?...I am catching pneumonia... Come, mamsy. 
—papsy wants a little petting, hey....” and he chuckled 
all over as if his dotage were a new-birth, he was so 
childish. . . 

“Come, be a good boy,” she patted his hand, “then 
we’ll go on the merry-go-round, I promise you—we’ll 
go down to the Prater some day soon....” 

And on this promise he lived. . . 

Meanwhile, Gisella, finding the door from home 
closed to her for sustenance, turned to the one source 
she was able to reach—her relatives’ bounty in 
Venice. . . She wrote, appealing to the Duca della 
Grazia. He knew her story. He was aghast at her con¬ 
nection with his house. . . He returned from the 
Italian war front determined that all ties should be 
severed with Austria, sentimentally as well as politi¬ 
cally, so he sent her five hundred lire, regretted her past 
with hauteur; she took the money gratefully, the hint 
to begone! and a train for Vienna all at one and the 
same time. 

And so she was in Austria, going over the Semmer- 
ing where she had taken her first step into an orgy of 
life!... The pass was almost snowbound... it was mid¬ 
winter. The Roxalpe was white from foot to crest, a 
shimmering, frosted tower in the sunlight... But soon 
the sun was overcast. Again the sky became leaden. 


294 


Merry-Go-Round 


All the beauty of the vast Alps, sliced to make a cause¬ 
way for her train, became veiled... She saw nothing 
but tumbling flakes, without object, without destina¬ 
tion, little particles of dry snow which February always 
brings to the Semmering, as agitated and unbridled as 
her own life, flashing past her window pane, deposit¬ 
ing stray particles in a frost against the glass and de¬ 
scending into the valleys. 

When she came into the Siidbahnhof, Vienna was 
wrapped in snow. It was the hour of high noon. She 
rubbed her eyes to make sure she was there. . . Noth¬ 
ing appeared natural, everything was topsy-turvy. 
Maybe this was due to the war or to the winter month 
of February, which, in this particular year, had an ex¬ 
tremely severe snow storm... But certainly she had 
difficulty to find her way about. . . 

Gisella was not altogether in responsible health. Her 
body was emaciated. Her clothing was in a fearful 
state, shoes broken and sunken at the heels, her hair 
was streaming and disorderly under a hat, very cheap, 
very worn, shapeless, out of fashion, and the long skirt 
was too full, the jacket too tight. . . Even her gloves 
were cotton and unmended. . . 

She had no apparent destination and walked about 
aimlessly. The cold was intense but she was too dazed 
to notice it... Something had happened to her brain. 
It was very sluggish, like a river that has become 
dammed up... Floating particles obscured each 
thought. Presently she forgot to think and walked 
along the Favoriten Strasse where it joined the Wied- 
ner Haupt Strasse as if she were promenading after 
a night of carousel, drunkenly, swinging from side to 
side of the wide street, with a song she learned in 
Venice on her lips. . . 

How long she wandered this way she had no record 
of... The Kaisergarten was before her, with heaps and 
heaps of snow. Some snowballs hit her hat. She re- 


All the World Was Cold 


295 


membered taking off her hat and putting it under her 
arm to protect it... Then there was a wild laugh... she 
looked about... two boys with a long sled were bom¬ 
barding her and rolling in the snow after every safe 
hit. 

She found herself in the Burg Ring, very tired, and 
sat down. The snow shovellers were working and the 
curbing was free. The benches and steps of the Maria- 
Theresa Monument were buried so that little moun¬ 
tains rose through the parks here and there and the 
horsemen on their silent mounts at the foot of the 
statue, as well as the empress’ figure, were completely 
hidden from view. . . This reminded her of a blanket 
drawn up to the chin and she laughed heartily. Then 
Gisella suddenly got to her feet, feeling very stiff and 
hungry. Why had she no destination—no end in view? 
She did not care if she slept or not. Where was she 
going? why had she come here? 

Where was she? 

In the end she forgot where she was. . . 

Then the wandering continued. Up one street and 
down the other, always muttering, having her hat in 
her hand. Everybody looked at her. Busy business 
men hesitated, people jostled her. She was in every¬ 
body’s way. . . And still she had no place to go. It 
did not dawn on her to seek her house. She had no 
house. All was vacant—an empty vista—snow... 
snow... snow... 

By the time three o’clock had come she had wandered 
into the Volksgarten. She was desperately hungry. 
Where should she go to eat? Numbly she felt in her 
purse, a black hand-satchel that had nothing in it 
beside the end of her ticket from Viterbo, which she 
had carefully preserved, for what purpose was not 
evident. . . But she had to eat! 

Ah, now she knew how to get money. She would 
stop some passerby... 


296 


Merry-Go-Round 


She tried to do this... 

What did she want? A ragged creature like this— 
did she think she could solicit men?... a derisive laugh 
followed her... She heard it, thought it was very funny 
and laughed along. . . The poor creature arrived by 
chance, simply in her wandering, in the Barten- 
steingasse. . . She was now one block from her 
former home and came up to it in time to pass a young 
French officer who had a fashionable stick in his hand, 
gloves and a cigarette. . . He had his cap set at a 
jaunty angle and the number seven, some distinguish¬ 
ing mark that belonged to his company or regiment, 
was perched on the very peak. 

For the first time Gisella, the Countess von Stein- 
brueck, realized where she was—in the city of Vienna! 
home! But her home was for rent. It was in as piti¬ 
able a condition as herself, the window-panes of the 
ground floor broken and the shutters hanging loose 
from their hinges. Her crest was half demolished. 
Vandals had despoiled what was one of the finest gov¬ 
ernment residences of the old Vienna—the city before 
the war—the Kaiserstadt — Wien! 

And so she looked at it and leaned against the light- 
post to solicit the young officer... She hummed a tune 
under her breath, signalled him as he was determined 
to pass, and finally did so with a low laugh. . . And 
now followed two American officers, also trimly 
dressed, with overseas caps on their heads and fine 
polished boots... She stood in their way. They looked 
at her as if she were a freak... 

“Look what’s kidding us,” the younger one said to 
the older... “Looks like the streets here were full of 
those kind... why don’t the police look after them?...” 

Shortly the police did. An officer touched her arm 
—a policeman in the new republic’s uniform, a sword 
slicing through his overcoat pocket and showing above 
his shoe tops— 


All the World Was Cold 


297 


“Move on, my fine lady... keep on moving. We 
don’t allow loitering here. You know where you are? 
Don’t try any of your ladylike tricks either... it ain’t 
done, that’s what. . .” 

Such brutality only left her cold. She was uncer¬ 
tain how to proceed so followed in the direction the 
officer had pointed out. It led her to Schmerling Platz, 
where a dog-catcher in a small cart had just crunched 
through the snow and picked up a stray puppy, hiding 
under the shadow of the Palace of Justice, which stands 
across the way... He gave her a glance, carrying the 
whining puppy in his hands. 

She called to him. 

“What do you want?” 

“Take me with you...” 

“Where?” 

“Where you are going,” pleaded Gisella... “I want 
some—some—it is so cold....” 

He looked her steadily in the face, the puppy kick¬ 
ing in his hands, and shook his head— 

“I ain’t pickin’ up women,” he said. . . 

And so she was through. There was no place to 
go. . . 

Yes, only one. She would come to that presently. 
She lost herself for another hour. . . The snow had 
not fallen since she came into the Siidbahnhof. Now it 
started again, first finely, stinging her cheeks; then 
commenced to grow with each flake, until the air was 
swimming like a vast desert whipped by a sand-storm, 
only the flakes fell lightly. They coaxed her to slum¬ 
ber...she felt just like lying down there—wherever she 
was—in the billowy bed and drowsing off. . . Day was 
so long. Still night commenced to fall. It was yet 
early, but by five the sky was overcast, visibility low; 
she had crossed the entire inner Ring, could not under¬ 
stand why she felt no pain except that the soft down¬ 
pour absorbed the cold and her blood circulated slug- 


298 


Merry-Go-Round 


gishly from walking. She had sat down and gotten 
up innumerable times. Always a policeman plucked 
her by the sleeve. 

Now it was five o’clock. It cleared again. She was 
on Franz-Josef’s Quai by the Danube Canal and began 
to shiver. Cakes of ice were floating in the channel... 
It looked hazy, as if a fog enveloped it, very still and 
calm. 

What should she do? Again... again... always the 
same thing: what should she do? Her footsteps went 
into Karl Ferdinand’s Platz and before she knew it she 
was beneath the Ferdinandsbriicke, going down several 
steps until she reached the water’s edge. There is a 
stone embankment here. It is underneath the bridge, 
hidden; few men, even the watchman, come to this 
spot. . . With the failure of daylight it was com¬ 
pletely obscured. 

Gisella, finding herself by the river’s side, stepped 
into it. She touched it with the soles of her shoes, 
then her ankles, knees, thighs. . . Now it was icy 
cold, like a knife slicing her legs away, but she perse¬ 
vered... Presently she would be numb... nobody would 
see her, not a cricket would hear her... all was as still, 
as torpid as if death were at hand to absolve earth of 
all worldly care, taking her hand, leading her in. . . . 

It is a brave thing to die this way. Normally, it is 
impossible. But in her, delirious condition death was 
painless. She let herself in, hands grasped her—the 
wash of the water; shoulders pressed her—the wall of 
ice!... She looked up as the channel swam to her neck 
and perceived—or thought she did—a man above her 
On the Ferdinandsbriicke. . . He placed his hand to 
his head, it began to snow, he removed his hat, the 

flakes touched his hair. He lifted his face and 

opened his eyes to Heaven, and something about the 
chin, something about the stark, white face reminded 
her of one she once knew. . . . 



All the World Was Cold 


299 


Franzl—the Count von Hohenegg! 

She cried out... but simultaneously came the 
thought— 

“This is a delusion of my mind because I am dying... 
God help me, I am dying... and he—where is he ? Ah, 
this would never have happened if I had married 
him!.” 



XXXVII 


FRANZ MEIER 

The man on the bridge was Franz von Hohenegg 
He it was as well, pale and gaunt, looking as if he had 
undergone much suffering, on whom the exhaust of 
yellow smoke had blown before his house on the 
Auerspergstrasse. 

The unlooked for had happened... a miracle!... a 
chance of fate, and here he was, not whole, to be sure, 
but alive, silent, tall, almost ghastly, a spectre of a 
man, a war wreck, flotsam eddied and circulated in a 
whirlpool, but home again, meek and refined, like gold 
out of a forge, remade, rehabilitated,—a returned 
“dead man”. 

When he was left on the field of the Rokitno 
Swamps in the midst of the retreat in Grodno Minsk, 
he lay in the position of a dead man for the balance of 
the night. An Austrian army surgeon had pronounced 
him dying. The dragoons left him. When a retreat 
is ordered, only the injured who can be revived are 
taken along... dead must be buried by the advancers, 
on whom the task falls with the occupation of an enemy 
terrain . . . 

Nepomuck Navratil’s binding had staunched the 
flow of blood from his deep thigh wound. If he had 
saved the peasant’s life, the peasant had also saved 
his... he was tightly bound, the leg became numb, all 
feeling left his body and by day-dawn Russian cavalry, 
sweeping over the muddy wasteland, picked him up— 
a commander—and found breath in his lungs; he was 
taken to the base hospital by stretcher-bearers; the Rus¬ 
sian advance went over. This was in August of 1917. 
Within the month he had been transferred to the Red 

300 



Franz Meier 301 

Cross Hospital in Moscow, along with other severely 
wounded men. . . 

Franzl suffered agonies during this period. The 
bravado of a man under his first fire sadly contrasted 
with the sights he was forced to witness in this hospi¬ 
tal. Poor, broken wrecks of men were on all sides, he 
was only one of many. But his leg came off, he was 
forced to undergo amputation, which was humanely 
done, and the Christmas month he spent on crutches, 
learning all over again, like a child, how to use his 
sound leg in conjunction with two wooden ones.... 
When they started in the following year to negotiate 
his exchange through Sweden, the entire spring went 
over... Later he was in Denmark. Too weak to go 
further, months found him in the Danish hospital... the 
end of the war came, mercifully, and, with it, down he 
went to Vienna to another military hospital, this time 
at home, and a medal of the order of the Iron Crown 
was fastened to his breast. . . 

Still, the report of his death had been confirmed— 
through the surgeon of the Sixth Dragoons, who left 
him on the field. He was accorded good treatment, but 
his name went on the Liebenberg Monument as a man 
who had sacrificed his life in the war... And so he had 
to a certain extent. What remained? why should he 
live? for what purpose? to what end? . . . His 
estates in Galicia were in the hands of the enemy. His 
income was cut off. What should become of the Palais 
Hohenegg since he had no money with which to keep it 
up?... Even if he had, the property was forfeited, 
since an entire change of government had succeeded the 
autocracy of Karl Franz-Josef...aristocracy was done 
with, middle-classism ruled!.... 

Franzl discarded his Russian crutches for an arti¬ 
ficial limb, which was bestowed on him in all kindliness 
by the authorities in Vienna. . . This was all he got 
besides a small pension and no other assistance...simply 


302 


M erry-Go-Round 


the means to walk with which to earn his bread, clothe 
himself, find himself a bed—breathe, eat, sleep and 
water himself like a horse. 

He started out to do this. 

In February, when the winter elements were at their 
most extreme stage, he found himself on the streets... 
He was, like that other poor wanderer who came from 
Viterbo, quite friendless, alone and uncertain how to 
proceed.... He was aware that everything had 
changed; the palace of emperors, the military situa¬ 
tion, his standing, the lives of his comrades... all was 
like a vast upheaval after the forces of nitrogen under 
the earth had set everything topsy-turvy, the crust of 
the ground bulging, forming new hills of the wealthy 
classes from valleys of the poor and vice versa... Little 
children begged from him in the streets. He had noth¬ 
ing to give them. Cripples sent him a brotherly look. 

When at last he was in the Auerspergstrasse and 
stood before his old home, in the gutter, snow to his 
knees and the damp frost falling in his face, he per¬ 
ceived that the palais was in good condition. Nothing 
was stolen, carried away from the outside... His 
portier appeared at the door as the new owner stepped 
from the courtyard into the waiting automobile... He 
saw his smug smile, the cigar between his lips and was 
struck by the man’s arrogant air, although he did not 
know him. . . As the groom for the Countess Gisella, 
Jock was a submerged personality...he had never swum 
to the surface in the consciousness of Franz von 
Hohenegg.... 

Now, when the air had cleared—the smoke blown 
away from his face and Franzl found himself again 
alone before the Atlas statues, when he saw his crest 
in the same position, the number of his house, its fine 
grill-work and lamps above the portico, he was filled 
with sad memories. He was desolate, his heart be¬ 
came chilled... Resolutely he stepped to the high, 


Franz Meier 


303 


locked doors and rang the bell. When the portier ap¬ 
peared he extended his hand— 

<( Kruger , kennst du mich nicht?” 

“Um Gotteswillen...” exclaimed the old man... “ ist 
das der Herr Graf ?! unmoglich! der ist ja todt.,.hab’s 
dock an der Saule gesehen!...’ n 

“No, Kruger,” Franzl replied: “I am here,” and he 
took his hand. “We are democrats now...shake! How 
are you? the missus?...come, aren’t you going to ask me 
in even, Kruger? that’s a fine way to treat your old 
master after all these years....” 

Franzl deliberately made light of the meeting, for 
his own sake as well as the servant’s. His heart had 
been too deeply seared by the perils of his life, his 
sorrows during war, at the front and in the close, acid- 
odour of hospitals, for him to take chances with his 
emotions.... 

“Let us go inside and we can talk it all over...I want 
to get some things as well, some of the things I left 
here. . .” 

Kruger shook his head, not quite able to realize the 
meaning of the words spoken by a man he thought 
dead and carried out of earthly proximities... 

“I’m—I’m afraid, your excellency, nothing has been 
left...everything is gone. The new owner ordered it 
all cleared.” 

“My trunks?” 

“Only the one with the family relics is here...I hid 
that. . ” 

Franzl was forced to laugh. Of what use were heir¬ 
looms to him now? Only the commercial value of gold 
and silver survived under the new republic. 

“Well, let us see...” 

He had not the least curiosity about the new owner. 

1 “Kruger, don’t you know me?” 

“For God’s sake, is that the count?! impossible, he’s dead!....l 
saw it on the monument!” 




304 


Merry-Go-Round 


They went inside... In the hallway the housekeeper 
was passing with a brush in her hand and she instantly 
stopped, her eyes opened with excitement and her 
mouth closed until it puckered! 

“Christina... you see, she knows me, Kruger...your 
wife knows me,” said Franzl, again controlling his 
feelings. “How are you, Christina? Come, you know 
me, surely...I haven’t changed so much as that?!” He 
tried to hide his limp with a soldierly air. He walked 
very upright, and his hair, which had turned snow- 
white as he lay upon the Rokitno sump-holes, now ex¬ 
posed, as he had his hat in his hand, gave him an aged 
and very sombre appearance. . . 

She looked from his hair to his eyes, recognized him 
and reached for his hand with an exclamation of 
wonderment, to kiss it after the manner of the old 
regime. . . 

“No, no, no! Democracy now! Where is my trunk 
—my only possession? Come, August, show me to my 
room, or wherever it is you have that box... 

“Well,” he said later on, embarrassed, “you have 
made some changes here...” The wall-papers were 
giddy with colours, the books had been swept from the 
shelves, automobile racing charts succeeded; a golden 
horse-shoe was fastened over the entrance to the dining 
salon. . . “I can’t find my way about.” 

“Come after me, sir...” 

“Lead the way.” 

“I have a newspaper that shows your excellency’s 
death notice...” 

“But I came back. I don’t know how it happened... 
I’m alive, I had a year and a half in the hospitals... 
time passed, we lost the war, so there you are... We 
must accept everything as it is, Kruger, and make the 
best of it. That is philosophy... You remember 
Nepomuck, Christina? Well, he was also shot, but he 
escaped with a bad arm—all shattered to pieces... I 


Franz Meier 


305 

don’t know where he is. He was a brave fellow... 
Well, well, don’t cry over me...here I am!” and he 
patted the soft-hearted housekeeper’s arm... “Come, 
you never know when you die, so you must laugh— 
everything is changed. Make the best of it....” 

But she continued to cry. 

The portier had gotten his keys, now conducted him 
to a narrow alcove under the stairs, where he pulled 
out a trunk, the top yellow with dust, smeared his 
hand over it and opened it.... 

“Here is the remainder, Herr Graf, of everything... 
may you make the most of it. Some gold plate, the 
jewels of your mother, your father’s sword.” 

“But is my violin here?” 

“Yes, your excellency...I put it in also....” 

Reverently he unpacked the chest. The violin was 
found. Franzl examined it. The strings were hang¬ 
ing, the bridge was broken. Otherwise it was in good 
condition and he replaced it, taking out the jewel cas¬ 
ket of his mother and very gently, in order not to dis¬ 
turb it, lifting the lid.... 

There were the two collarets, the ear-rings and finger 
rings that his father presented his mother on their 
marriage day... There the tiara his mother always 
wore at court functions...two small brooches... He re¬ 
called that he had not taken much notice of these things 
in the old days. 

What should he do with them now? 

“Christina, would you like a souvenir to remember 
my mother?” he took her hands and apron from her 
eyes... “here, I’m talking to you—do you want a sou¬ 
venir? then take this ring—let me slip it on your 
finger....” 

She commenced to protest. 

“Say nothing. I am going to give it to you. And 
you, August, what do you want?... a little stick-pin? 
This will remember my father to you... Me? I am 


306 


Merry-Go-Round 


sure in your hearts you will always remember the Count 
Franzl, no?... there, there....” Before he knew what 
was what, patting the housekeeper on the shoulder, 
giving his hand again to Kruger, he was himself on 
the brink of tears—turning his head aside, trying to 
smother sentiment too powerful for them all. . . 

“And so, we come to the end—this is all. I am 
going to another place, August, you must come and see 
me sometime. I don’t know where it is; I haven’t 
picked it out yet...but it will be somewhere very—er-er, 
democratic...you understand. I have got to earn my 
own living. 

“And so, my friends, I will say good-bye for the 
present. Give my trunk to the expressman who calls— 
he will have the new number.... 

“Good-bye...” 

“Good-bye,” they said, both. 

And when his manhood came back to him he was 
walking—with his limp—down Schmerling Platz to¬ 
ward the Ringstrasse... he was going out to hunt his 
living, thanking the good souls, thanking his own Deity 
that he was allowed to live; he passed through the 
Volksgarten, under the windows of the Hofburg and 
on into the thronging, white-blanketed business parts of 
old Vienna. . . 

The first place he saw on entering the Stephansplatz 
was the candy shop of Victor Schmidt. It was wedged 
beside the clothing emporium of Jacob Rothberger, 
which has stood for a great while and is very 
famous, and he thought, because he had often traded 
there, perhaps his face would seem familiar, the honour 
would be great to employ him. He walked without 
hesitation inside the glass doors. . . 

To follow Franzl, the Count von Hohenegg, from 
place to place as he sought employment would be both 
tiresome and fruitless. He was not the only man in 
Vienna who needed a livelihood... four or five hundred 


Franz Meier 


307 


had been in these stores to seek a living wage behind 
counters and in factories before him. . . 

He was greeted with the same story in each place— 

“We have more applicants than we can occupy. You 
are the eighth person who has come here this morn¬ 
ing...” or the twelfth, or eighteenth, or twenty-fifth! 
To send an army of demobilised men, some sick, some 
well, whole or partial, into a city where they originally 
spent, but now needed to earn, was to flood a market, 
not too prosperous with customers, with supply exceed¬ 
ing demand... Too many people had to earn a living; 
too few could engage their services. . . 

He was very near an exhausted condition when, 
finally, he had visited them all with one single excep¬ 
tion. Before entering here, he heard the clock of St. 
Stephen’s rhythmically chiming the hour of high noon... 
There he stood and automatically doffed his hat. . . 

Stephansdom! 

He had not eaten. He was tired. Was there such 
a thing as a spiritual consanguinity with God? 

In order to rest, he went inside. 

In order to pray, he sat on the bench. He could not 
kneel; he was handicapped by his artificial leg. He 
sat perfectly still in a pew of the great churchly edifice, 
laid his hands on the pew rail and sank his head upon 
them. . . 

At one o’clock he was rested, felt as if he had been 
comforted, fed, reimbued with hope, and set out, 
breathing deeply, the cold, raw air rushing into his 
lungs from the Stephansplatz as he placed his feet on 
the snow-covered plaza. Not a flake had fallen since 
the earlier morning, but the sky was leaden and dull. 

Beyond where he stood was the Graben 1 —be¬ 
yond the Stock im Eisen Platz. For the first time he 
realized the real significance of this place of the “Iron 
Stick.” . . . He was also an apprentice seeking work. 


1 chief commercial street of Vienna. 



308 


Merry-Go-R ound 


He was also about to hammer his nail beside the 
journeymen’s who passed here seven centuries before! 
How many labourers, commercial and otherwise, were 
engaged in the Graben? There must be an opening 
for just one more! 

He set out resolutely—but it was to the remaining 
shop on the Stephansplatz. If he failed here, the 
Graben was waiting for him. 

The sign read: MANDELBAUM AND ROSEN- 
STEIN. 

This sign was a new one. Formerly it read: Man- 
delbaum and Rosenstein, Imperial and Royal Court 
Purveyors, and had the Austrian double eagle in 
gilt. 

But beside this democratic touch no change had taken 
place in the management nor the quality of merchan¬ 
dise dispensed. It was still a neck-tie store... Franzl 
had bought his neck-ties here. He recalled the day he 
came out with a purchase under his arm and met a 
little woman on the Stephansplatz who told him her 
father was arrested—that her mother was dead. He 
took her to—well, to a place he was now ashamed to 
think about, but he pretended it was the residence of the 
commissary of police and stood on the Obere Augarten- 
strasse...there he—he- 

Sadness entered his soul. 

Where was Agnes? Had the waif of the Volks- 
prater forgotten him? ground her organ, dreaming of 
another—perhaps despising him for what he had done 
to her? His conduct toward this child of the lower 
classes was despicable...he was quite convinced he had 
acted worse than a cad. But it wrung his heart—not 
because of this so much —but because he loved her. He 
had suffered. No matter how he had wronged her, 
she had made him suffer, loving her, being unable to 
forget the memory of her..and this touched him keenly. 
He was very sensitive now. 



Franz Meier 


309 


He went inside the door to divert himself from the 
pain his memories gave him; and here he applied for 
the seventh time that February day for labour to keep 
sustenance in his body...and he was rewarded. 

“Come to work tomorrow,” said Mr. Mandelbaum, 
taking the application of his former customer and aris¬ 
tocratic patron calmly... “you can sell neck-ties here, 
Mr. Hohenegg.” . . . 

“Thank you, sir,” said Franzl, very humbly. 

So he turned back into the street. 

It was the work of another hour to find a tenement. 
By the time he had sent an expressman for his trunk 
and rested himself, it was evening. He lived close to 
the Ferdinandsbriicke. . . His landlady had given 
him a little sandwich of bread and sausage and a cup 
of hot coffee to stimulate him, taking his watch as se¬ 
curity until he should earn enough to pay for his room 
and board. . . 

Now he stepped into the street. He had seen the 
snow falling in dry, hard little particles from three 
o’clock until five. 

When it stopped, he crunched into the new carpet. 
Dusk was at hand—a dreary hour of the day when 
human emotion reaches the lowest ebb. Lights are not 
beaming above the streets yet nor in windows from 
houses... The lamp-lighters are just passing about, 
lifting their tapers, gazing at the sky and the lamps, 
undecided whether to blot out the sky with the lamp¬ 
light or allow the dying sun to fall in full glory. . . 

This day there was no sun. He crossed the Franz- 
Josef Quai with its warehouses and docks, gazed at 
the Danube Channel, which was pewter-gray, som¬ 
nolent, swimming beside its concrete banks at the point 
where the bridge spanned, leading into the Prater- 
strasse. . . 

Perhaps there was a sentiment in his heart for this 
bridge, because it led him over the channel into the 


310 


Merry-Go-Round 


avenue which sped for miles in the direction of the 
pleasure park. It was a subconscious sensation. . . 
He could feel himself crossing it; but when he reached 
the middle, something said: halt! 

He stood still. 

Night was just falling. One by one, lights winked 
into the river. He could smell acacia in his nostrils 
from the Prater park, see the lilacs, hear the Rutsch- 
bahn . 

Then he felt the tiniest fleck of snow upon his hand, 
so he took off his hat and turned his face upward to 
the new-descending snow-fall. . . 

At this moment he was conscious of a splash in the 
water below him... a human voice called out! 

He looked quickly over the railing...thought he saw 
a head—a woman’s face, agonized, white, looking up 
at him.... It clutched him at the throat—he seemed to 
see—he saw—— 

No! He examined the spot with all his might, lean¬ 
ing over the bridge rail, hanging out until he nearly 
lost his balance. . . 

All was as dark below as a cavern—except for a 
white slab of ice floating directly over the spot. 





XXXVIII 


THE SUPREME SACRIFICE 

June is the month of brides. . . 

However, in May, when the chestnut blossoms were 
again blooming and spring gave a first balmy warmth 
to the air, Agnes realized that at last the Wurstelprater 
could be reopened... If Bartholomew, Mrs. Rossreiter, 
Nepomuck and Marianka Huber agreed with her, they 
could move into the concessions... maybe all could be 
operated under one head. 

In fact, she very gently suggested that if—as Bar¬ 
tholomew had said in November—he intended to buy 
an interest with Mrs. Rossreiter and thus become a 
partner, and Nepomuck and Mrs. Huber intended to 
marry—as they had agreed, also in November!—why 
the arrangement could be very perfect, only—and she 
hesitated and hung her head, and Bartholomew, in a 
very transport of joy, conceived at once that she wished 
him to advance the date of their wedding, which had 
been decided for June. . . Therefore, he sprang about 
very agilely, said he thought it could all be terminated 
that way. . . They went to a sign-maker, had the letter¬ 
ing twisted, first one way, then the other, the names 
read, finally completed: 

NAVRATIL...ROSSREITER AND GRUBER... 
FERGNUGUNGS ESTABLISHMENT ... which 
meant “Pleasure Establishment,” or the fact that the 
merry-go-round and the Kraftmaschine, the Punch and 
Judy and the Wonder Palace were all one com¬ 
bination, operating with three partners, sharing 
equally.... 


311 


312 Merry-Go-Round 

Now, when this was arranged, a wedding was bound 
to follow. 

Nepomuck Navratil had really no interest as things 
stood. The sign should have read: Huber, Rossreiter 
and Gruber, since the hunchback had paid his way into 
partnership with the two ladies. . . Why, therefore, 
was it written with the name Navratil? 

The 7th day of May saw all this uncertainty 
cleared up. 

A closed one-horse cab ambled over the Prater- 
strasse, past Venedig in JVien, just rousing from its 
five years of sleep, and into the Huber concession. The 
driver had a decoration of white flowers on his whip 
and in his hat-band, which is the custom, and his horse 
was likewise a celebrant of the great occasion, by hav¬ 
ing the same blossoms fastened among the blinkers over 
his eyes. . . 

When the cab arrived, the very first person to de¬ 
scend was a little man not over five feet high, with a 
flower in his button-hole—Mr. Bartholomew Gruber! 
And after him a tiny lady in a new dress, with a large 
bouquet in her baby hands and a wistful smile on her 
lips, like her mother—Agnes Urban. Nepomuck fol¬ 
lowed in a dark suit with orange blossoms in his lapel, 
the mark of bridegrooms,—and was accompanied by 
his blushing bride, no longer Marianka Huber, but a 
widow remarried, her white tulle veil wreathing her 
head above her street dress, which was really a very 
odd combination. . . 

But everybody was happy: Mrs. Rossreiter, too 
plump to dismount from the one-horse cab without 
help....Nepomuck and Marianke because they were 
united...Agnes because she was coming to the Wurstel- 
prater with Francisca for the first time...and Barthol¬ 
omew, not because his wedding day had advanced one 
hour from the June 11th promised by Agnes—con¬ 
trary to his expectations,—but simply because they were 


The Supreme Sacrifice 


313 


all so happy, the day was bright, the chestnuts in 
blossom, he was himself close to matrimony—the ful¬ 
filling of his heart’s desire, and there was nothing to 
be melancholy about. 

The boarding about the booths had all been taken 
down. Dilapidation was being effaced. Weeds, that 
grew in profusion from the desolation of the war 
period, had been pulled, and the trees pruned, the side¬ 
walks levelled, the houses painted, the booths rebuilt.... 
in fact, it was like a new city, sprung up on the ruins of 
the old—a fresh pleasure park, opening to the public, 
with fresh amusements, new blood, paint, varnish and 
oiled machinery! 

The very last of the renovation was drawing to a 
close. The horses of the merry-go-round wore new 
coats of colour. After this was done, they tried the 
machinery, Francisca on a box learned to turn the 
grind-organ with her mamma’s hand guiding her 
own. . . 

Like children they inspected everything, gravely, 
saluting each other, laughing, chattering, singing 
snatches of songs and going about from one booth to 
the next among the other concessionaires and all eat¬ 
ing sausages together and drinking lemonade. 

Bartholomew mounted the platform— 

“Ladees and gents, step right in...the greatest per¬ 
formance starts right now...don’t push-” 

“Who’s pushin’?” screamed the fat woman, her 
voice returning,—“look out! get off that horse. . . um 
Gotteswillen” she threw her hands in the air—“did 
you ever see anything like it?!” Nepomuck had 
seated himself on Huber’s famous u Schimmel y,x of the 
Ringelspiel\ freshly enamelled, and he now rose with 
the seat of his pants all white.... “Nobuddy’s got any 
sense... now, go over an’ see if the Punch an’ Judy 
works, Mister NavratiL.an’ don’t let me catch 


x white horse. 




SI 4 Merry-Go-Round 

you doin’ no more damage ’round here, y’ hear 
me?!....” 

As cheerful as everyone was, at bottom they had a 
sentiment about this reunion. They could have cried. 
Five years had passed. Who was missing? Some¬ 
times a good man and sometimes a bad—but they 
mingled for the sake of checking up old faces: Astarte, 
the Wonder of the World, her barker...the deep-sea 
diver who never dove...the fire department that had 
its engine and hose-cart in the middle of the street, 
giving the horses a washing off and the copper a 
polish...the dwarfs...the lady without lower body, run¬ 
ning to catch her seventh child who had thrown a 
sausage skin down her back. 

Who was missing? 

Among these they mourned Boniface, his liberty cap, 
his saucy ways. 

Toward evening the first of the day’s population 
came into the Wurstelprater... music began to be played 
on every hand, and a rumble like retreating thunder 
sounded close to their ears. It was the first flight of 
the Rutschbahn, a little stiff, scraping, not as smooth as 
months of coasting would make the tracks again,—but 
part and parcel of the pleasure park and, therefore, 
a joyous sound, sweet as music, reckless, ex¬ 
hilarating... 

When the merry-go-round rotated for the first time, 
a man stood on the edge of the throng surrounding it, 
his eyes alight, a singular emotion gravening deeply the 
lines about his sensitive mouth and chin. 

Had he wanted to ride he would have only found 
it necessary to buy a ticket from a roll in the boxlike 
booth in which sat Marianka Navratil... He could 
have stepped to the opening, held out his hand extend¬ 
ing a coin, the oblong bit of pasteboard would have 
fallen into it, he could have mounted a horse, white or 
black—they were all dry now—and taken his seat like 



The Supreme Sacrifice 


315 


any child or workman who had never sat astride a 
live horse in the corso. . . 

But he did none of these things. The man was 
merely a spectator. 

When he became tired he gently mingled with the 
crowds, allowed himself to slip in between them, to pass 
through under the sign which was fastened above the 
alley, reading NAVRATIL...ROSSREITER AND 
GRUBER... and from this position to disappear as if 
he had been wiped off the earth! 

Nobody saw him... no one followed him. 

The night closed down. The lights rose like little 
stars from lamp-posts on every side, and the booths 
presented a picture of illumination with every electric 
light bulb as new and fresh as the year and the hour! 

When the clock turned to nine Agnes had Fran- 
cisca packed between her clean white sheets upstairs 
in the new room she was to occupy. It had every stray 
atom of desolation wiped out of it... her furniture was 
plain and clean and sweet. There was an odour of the 
scrubbing brush and a basin of soap water... a carpet 
was on the floor, dimity curtains on the windows, fresh 
green shades, transparent glass, papered walls, a brand 
new stove, quilts, a mirror, dresser, table and chairs. . . 

What more was there to wish for? 

Yet, on her way downstairs something clutched her 
heart—a recollection—night...lilacs...sweet acacia... she 
felt herself wafted off into a dream and went hastily to 
the booth where Marianka was sitting, to escape her 
thoughts. She felt like a thief running from his con¬ 
science. 

Business was good; Marianka sat right there, newly 
wed, her hair still smelling with orange blossoms and 
her hands fingering the ticket roll. 

What right had she, Agnes, to think of personal 
a £f a i rs —events of years past, when Marianka did not 
even think of her marriage? 



316 


Merry-Go-Round 


Night... acacia... lilacs.... 

Mingled, these three words had a singular effect 
upon her... she tried to shake it off. 

“Perhaps if I go into the park and I see the flowers 

and the chestnut boughs, maybe then I can-” Agnes 

looked around, perceived she was unseen, ran through 
into the little alley and out into the park as if she were 
quite alone... nobody was behind her, nobody to pluck 
her by the sleeve, whisper into her ear, take her to a 
bench, sit down beside her, love her, cajole her...make 
her ever so happy beneath the snow-white moon and 
the shimmering stars. 

Nobody? 

....Bartholomew had seen her go. However invisible 
light feet attached to a lithe body of a young and head¬ 
strong woman think they are, others can follow them... 
Two pairs of feet can run as well as one! 

But Bartholomew was not to catch up with her. He 
progressed only as far as the second lilac bush—and 
then he saw a sight that turned every muscle of his heart 
as cold as iron, as naked, hard and brittle, at one time, 
as forged steel!.... He remained there, hidden, trem¬ 
bling from his head to his feet. 

Agnes had advanced quite innocently, run and then 
walked into the shadows playing across the moss-grown 
and weed-choked paths that her ankles had brushed 
over so frequently in years gone by... She stepped into 
the circle of a giant tree spreading its branches over¬ 
head... and there she hesitated because she heard a 
sound. The sound came out very gently, it wailed like 
a violin’s heart touched on the finest chords and gave 
out a dancing rhythm that she knew—so very well: the 
Strauss waltz, “Out There In The Blossoming 
Garden...” 

The tree branches swayed...was she rocking them in 
her emotion? 

A gentle breeze swept over the Prater park. . . 




The Supreme Sacrifice 


317 


The melodious violin ceased its wailing. . . She was 
attracted to go further because a silent voice called her 
that way. One of the giant chestnuts had been frosted 
and died. The renovators in the Prater had cut it 
down. 

Seated on this stump was an old man. His hat lay 
on the ground. His back was toward her and the light 
from the moon at half-fullness cast direct rays upon his 
silver-white hair, thick and beautiful, but the hair of 
a man grown old with life’s duties, responsibilities, 
sorrows and heartaches. . . 

She did not understand why this head should have 
a fascination for her—why it should draw her, lure 
her toward the musician and set her directly before 
his face in the pale moonlight. . . 

Now the face was lifted and exposed to her—a young 
face!... She could have swooned...—it was Franz 
Meier! 

Bartholomew saw these lovers reunite. They 
clasped hands, lips, shoulders, breasts... they were one 
under the evening light! 

He heard the woman murmur, withdrawing herself 
from the man’s enclosure—from his love: 

“No...it is impossible...” in her sobbing voice. 

The quivering masculine tones responded— 

“I know—it is because I am a cripple.” 

“No, no, no,!” quickly, then further sobs—“I have 
promised someone else....” 

“Who is it?” 

“Bartholomew....” 

His heart gave a lurch and seemed to crack; the 
pieces rasped against each other, giving infinite pain. . . 

“You—love—him ?” 

Silence. 

He strained his ears... he knew what the answer 
must be. Only one man can be loved by a woman who 
loved as this woman loved this man! Still, he wanted 



318 


Merry-Go-Round 


to hear; it is a childish perversion but a human one to 
want to be convinced against the sounder sense and 
judgment. 

He heard—“He is so kind and good to me....” 

“But—do you love him?” 

The woman’s voice wailed like the violin— 

“I have only loved once....” 

“Then tell him so...” 

“It would break his heart!” 

“....And so you want to break mine?” 

“Mine also, perhaps,” she said,—“but I must keep 
my faith. . . . Good-bye, Franz... beloved... good¬ 
bye.” 

Another long and fervent sob, trembling as it was 
torn out of her soul, and Agnes started toward the 
gate. She passed the first lilac bush and the second— 
was almost out of the park when a terrible sound broke 
the silence, shattering the air, tearing at her ear-drums, 
sending everything into wild concussion about her! And 
she trembled and then knew what it was—a revolver 
shot! 

Somebody was shot! Franz?...my God! 

She ran now, with palpitating feet to the stump where 
he was seated. 

He was gone! 

She looked right—left. There was his hat, his violin. 
There the mark of his shoes—one extending from the 
steel brace at his foot where she had seen it—steel— 
reflecting the pale beams of the moon or the Prater 
light. 

She was wild now with anxiety... Had Franzl shot 
himself? was she contributing just this last fatal stroke 
to his poor, wretched, insufferable life?! 

She suddenly perceived a small billow of smoke 
rising out of the lilac bush and threw herself toward 
it...parting the branches... yes, there he lay! 

But Franzl immediately rose from the bottom of 





The Supreme Sacrifice 


319 


the broken branches, laden with blossoms, unhurt, but 
with a face reflecting sorrow to her startled gaze. His 
mouth was drooping, heart-broken agony in that word¬ 
less glance.... 

She understood. 

Bartholomew was underneath. He had shot himself 
to make way for their union, with his little silver- 
mounted pistol—the pistol bought with the lottery 
money for his protection. 

Protection! 

The crickets sang in the grass where daisies speckled 
their tiny heads reaching up for a glimpse of the chest¬ 
nut trees... The night remained still, doubly so for 
the crash that shattered its silence...and sweet odours 
rose... the tang of powder-smoke... twinkling lights, the 
staring moon... the sudden grumble of the Rutsch- 
hahn. . . . 

Outside were the crowds and the merry-go-round 
that was without its barker and went ’round and ’round 
and ’round. . . 


******** 


Upon such sacrifice... the gods themselves throw 
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